


In Your Dreams

by MGreenwood (Majestrix)



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Barely functioning adults, Dream Sex, Dream Sharing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Harry did not think things through, Lucid Dreaming, Multi, Oral Sex, Prophecy, Vaginal Sex, denial is not just a river in egypt, dumbass behavior, ill-conceived fake dating, inadvertent dosing, love potions, memories of bullying, memories of racial microaggressions, multiple communication failures, poorly-concealed jealousy, racial microaggressions, trying to use magic instead of dealing with feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22457335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Majestrix/pseuds/MGreenwood
Summary: No matter what each wants, Macy and Harry are still two traumatized souls that can't seem to stop hurting each other even as they reach for one another. Just when it seems avoiding heartbreak would be a miracle, destiny... the universe - whatever you want to call it - steps in to save them from themselves, and puts into motion events long foretold by both sides of the Witch and Demon conflict.
Relationships: Harry Greenwood & Macy Vaughn & Maggie Vera & Mel Vera, Harry Greenwood/Abigael Jameson-Caine, Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 38
Kudos: 108





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Set after S2E6: When Sparks Fly, and follows along with most of the canon until it diverges, probably around what I like to imagine will happen in episode 11.

After everyone goes to bed Macy pulls on a jacket and steals away back to the command center.

She has to get out of the manor; she can’t breathe in her room and her bed holds no comfort. Macy understands she’s in her real home, surrounded by her family but things look the same when she blinks, and she feels like she can hear _him_ breathing harshly in her ear.

He’s dead and she’s sad?

Macy lets the door close behind her and she exhales audibly in the empty room. Habit drives her eyes to dart to the map, holding her breath as she confirms there are no red lights. After that, she’s left to her own thoughts and they spiral out of control in the particular type of silence the command center produces when it’s empty.

She takes off her jacket and places it on the back of a chair in front of the Book of Elders. It’s open to a page and what they’ve begun calling the Sentinel’s Loupe nestled in the middle. It seems someone, probably Harry, was interrupted earlier that evening.

Macy knows not to touch the tome, not unless she wants a quick ride across the room and into the wall. Hell, maybe it would snap her out of what she’s feeling.

He’s dead and she’s _sad_ ?

Who is she sad for?

The look in Harry’s eye before he left her room still makes her heart clench, he looked so… so lost. Something happened when he went back to fight his other half and he won’t tell her. That irks Macy more than she wants to admit. She likes to think she and Harry have the type of rapport where he’ll admit things between the two of them that aren’t meant to be shared with everyone.

 _Or were you projecting again, Macy_?

Her inner critic still sounds like Nadia Perkins-Clarke, her seventh-grade bully, and she shuts the door on _that_ immediately.

Macy feels unmoored and she doesn’t know what to do. Her brain won’t stop racing and her chest feels tight and when she closes her eyes, she sees something in Jimmy’s eyes.

In Harry’s eyes.

In her eyes when she looks in the mirror.

Macy sits in the chair before the Book of Elders and stares at it angrily. She needs help, damn it, and something that is rightfully hers is being denied through no fault of her own.

She slouches in the seat, letting the tension settle into her bones as she prepares to spend another sleepless night in the command center watching the map of the world ready for when a light turns red.

A notebook wedged beneath the Book of Elders catches her eye; she can see a corner of Mel’s handwriting and with careful movements, Macy is able to pry it from beneath the book. As she flips through the pages, she realizes her sister has done an amazing job recalling what she can from the Book of Shadows. Page after page is filled with her compact script, even in the margins.

Macy stops on a page and stares at a note in the margin.

_For Forward Thinking Clarity_

Well, she can use some of that.

Macy rises from the chair and walks over to the table Mel and Harry have commandeered for a potions lab; one side with beakers and vials and the other with jars and containers of varying sizes, all with labels written in Mel and Maggie’s handwriting.

It takes no time to gather the herbs, and when she’s done Macy skims over the rest of the notes and begins to frown. There are a lot of scribbles and crossed out notes. Caution slows her down and she wonders at the logic of not just asking Mel before attempting this potion.

Immediately Macy’s stomach turns at the image of her sisters’ expressions filled with concern. Watching her like she was going to break. Sharing that look they do when they think she’s not watching them.

No, no thank you.

Macy’s brewed plenty of potions, she doesn’t need anyone to hold her hand for this. She works slowly, and eventually, she has tea that doesn’t smell too bad. It doesn’t smell _good_ , but it doesn’t make her want to gag.

She adds extra hibiscus in hopes to mask the flavor even more; she doesn’t know what it’ll taste like, but she knows she probably doesn’t want it in her mouth. Macy pours it all into a stoppered vial and shakes hard as she continues to read the instructions. Now she must find her favorite cup and pour it in, then spend ten minutes staring at the surface of the liquid while she thinks about what she needs.

Seems simple enough.

Macy glances around the command center and immediately finds her favorite teacup; it’s dark blue with gold filigree around the lip with a matching saucer. It’s not _her_ cup per se, but it _is_ her favorite cup.

She doesn’t put too much thought into it as she grabs it and brings it over to the table. Macy shakes the vial again before she empties it into the cup; it swirls gritty and black, and despite her efforts, the oils are beginning to exhibit their hydrophobic nature and separate from the rest of the tea. She sets the countdown timer on her phone for ten minutes and sets it down beside her.

If Macy had her powers, she would stir the tea mentally while she stared down into the cup to keep the contents moving. She felt something bubble up at the back of her throat and she slaps her hand over her mouth to keep the manic laughter inside as her eyes prickle with tears. How is this her life? How can she even think about what she needs if she doesn’t even know how to feel?

Macy closes her eyes and unbeknownst to her two tears slip into the tea. “ _I don’t want to feel guilty_ , she thinks as she wipes at her still closed eyes. “ _I don’t want to fear every time I close my eyes. I want to figure out what it is I’m feeling when I see his face and hear his voice_.”

She opens her eyes and pours everything she’s feeling into the liquid in the cup before her, stirring and stirring until her alarm app alerts her that ten minutes have passed. It doesn’t look any more appetizing than it did before she began, but Macy doesn’t think anything will help that.

She takes a quick sip and…

…And it’s not that bad. Strange tasting, for sure, and Macy doesn’t know if it’s supposed to tingle when it hits the back of her throat or if that was an early sign of an allergic reaction. She hesitates but takes another swallow, then another.

Macy manages to drain half, if not most, of the cup before her stomach rebels. She carefully puts it down while she wrestles her stomach under control; she does not have the energy to clean the command center floor right now.

She frowns; just a moment ago Macy had felt as if her brain was attempting to race itself out of her skull and the thought of getting into her bed seemed distasteful. Now? Now she can’t stifle the yawn that threatens to crack her jaw on the way out. Macy blinks slowly and feels… like she can breathe. When she closes her eyes, she doesn’t see Jimmy nor does she see Harry, just darkness.

It feels... freeing.

Distantly Macy feels the call of cool sheets and soft pillows and the gentle press of her favorite pajamas against her skin. Doctor Macy Vaughn wants to go to bed, _needs_ to go to bed. In almost a dream-like state she turns on her heel and goes straight back to the manor.

It’s dark when she returns and thankfully, she doesn’t encounter anyone. Macy doesn’t think she’s up to talking to anyone anymore. She’s shaking by the time she pulls herself into her room and she just has enough time to pull off her jacket before her eyes roll up into her head and she falls forward onto the bed, immediately and deeply asleep.

~*~

Harry knocks again, straining to hear beyond the door to the room inside. He’s been knocking almost three minutes now and not a sound from within. Inwardly he curses the Elders severing his connection to the Charmed Ones; if he were still bound to them Harry could use the innate sense all Whitelighters have to sense the general well-being of their charges in case of emergency.

“Harry? Are you okay?”

He jerks away from Macy’s door as if he’s done something, shaking his head and dropping his hand immediately as he turns to find the youngest Vera smiling at him strangely. “No, I just wished to check on your sister,” he tells Maggie. “Have you spoken to her this morning?”

Maggie frowns and shakes her head. “She’s normally up by now, but maybe we should give her some time? She did just get kidnapped by your doppelganger,” she says.

Harry pauses; yes, of course, he knows that, but he had failed to consider was there was a strong chance _his_ face might be the last thing she’d want to see right now. Suddenly, instead of being in any danger, now it appears she has been tactfully ignoring him.

“Ah,” he says gingerly, hoping he isn’t flushing as red as his face feels hot. “Well, if you do see Macy please let her know that I’ve left breakfast for her in the kitchen if she’s hungry.”

“Sure thing, Harry,” Maggie says.

“I’m going to head to the command center to continue translating the Book. Just call if you need me,” he says.

Maggie looks at him knowingly and if Harry didn’t know any better, he would think she’d gotten her powers back. “She’s going to be okay,” she says.

“Of that I have no doubt,” he whispers. “I have done away with my foul counterpart and all that’s left is to recover.” Harry avoids Maggie’s eyes as he turns and heads down the stairs. He decides against orbing and chooses to walk at a brisk clip to Safe Space instead.

The beginnings of a headache dance around the periphery of his skull and the loud, enthusiastic announcements from Swan do him no favors. Last night he may have over-indulged; it took four fingers of whiskey to put him to sleep. Harry’s not a fan of medicating himself in such a manner, but that was the only thing that drowned out the voice in his head that told him he enjoyed killing his darklighter piece a little _too_ much.

 _You will never be enough for her_.

Oh yes, of that Harry is well aware.

Thankfully the silence presses blessedly against his head as the command center seals itself shut behind him, and his eyes immediately go to the map as he jogs down the stairs. Everything is twinkling blue and Harry is glad. Until Macy emerges it’s going to be just him and with his healing still not to the strength or speed it should be, going out on his own would only invite ruin.

“Harry, old man, seems you continue to find new ways to be useless,” he mutters to himself as he comes to stand at the central table.

Mindlessly he begins to tidy up, returning objects to their designated locations and clearing the table of debris that has collected throughout the course of several days. Harry decides to arrange the herbs alphabetically, and more than a few times he is reduced to guessing at the scribble on the label and vows to get a label printer before they accidentally kill each other with an ill-prepared potion.

He turns to see his teacup on a side table, almost jarringly out of place. There’s liquid inside but Harry knows the last time he had tea he cleaned the cup after use. Maggie claims teacups have no value in a world of sleek, burnished metal flasks that keep cold things cold and hot things hot. Mel says his teacup specifically is a symbol of generations of colonialism and that he should know better, and besides, it’s ugly.

Harry can’t help but smile as his thoughts land on Macy; she likes to drink his tea when she thinks he’s not looking and sometimes – though they would never admit it aloud – they childishly race to see who can get the cup first, the winner the one who gets to use it that time.

He imagines the curve of her lips as she blows on the hot liquid, incredibly pleased she’s won as she takes a sip. She licks her lips as she blinks slowly and declares that no one makes tea quite as he does.

“Harry?”

Mel’s voice rings out like a javelin, and he just manages to suppress a wince.

“Down here,” he calls, swirling the cup and thus is contents. It doesn’t appear to be earl grey or oolong. Harry lifts it to his nose and immediately detects marjoram and what he thinks is galangal, and obviously hibiscus. Marjoram is often used as a tea to calm the mind or ease grief.

His heart skips a beat before thundering in his ears; does Macy have grief she needs to ease? Does she mourn the scoundrel that abducted her?

“Harry?”

He doesn’t jump, but it’s a near thing. Mel is standing before him looking at him strangely.

“Melanie,” he says, his voice rough with surprise. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Oh, the full name,” Mel jokes as she puts her bag on the table. “Where were you? Looked like you were a million miles away.”

Absently Harry knocks back what’s left of the tea in his cup and blanches as the liquid coats his tongue. Oh god, what a cacophony of flavors! “Oh,” he groans, and shudders after he swallows it down.

Mel wrinkles her nose. “Are you okay?”

Harry nods. “Just remind me to show you three how to brew a proper cuppa,” he mutters. He swallows again and wonders at the odd scratch at the back of his throat. His headache begins to recede, and he glances down at the now empty cup in appreciation. At least now the day seems marginally conquerable.

The night?

Perhaps he can persuade Gentleman Jack once again to deliver him into the arms of Morpheus, because without help the only thing he knows he has to look forward to is the replaying visions of his face, contorting as he slides the knife between his own ribs.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Macy continue to catch each other wrongfooted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set right after episode seven, Past is Present.

Macy throws open her door to her bedroom. Mel freezes as if she’s been caught mid-robbery by a full police precinct; her mouth is drawn down in a frown and she looks drained, her phone clutched in her hand. Macy feels her irritation evaporate in sympathy and opens the door wider. “Mel, do you want to come in?” 

Mel looks as if she wants to bolt but after a second an odd mix of surprise and relief leach into her expression. “Uh, sure, I’m not bothering you?” she asks as she slips into Macy’s bedroom. 

Macy bites back a smile and shakes her head. “No, you’ve just been practicing your tap dance routine outside my door for the last twenty minutes,” she teases. “I wanted to see your choreography.”

Mel winces before she collapses dramatically onto the bed as she checks her phone. “Still nothing,” she groans. 

“I’m worried about Maggie, too, but she can handle Parker,” Macy says as she climbs onto the bed next to her to rest against the headboard. 

“I know,” Mel grumps. “I just can’t help but think the longer means there’s just more time for everything to go to shit.” 

Macy can’t help but agree. “But she felt it was best to confront Parker on her own,” she says with a shrug.

Mel scoffs. “Yeah, but she wants Abigael?” 

Hearing that _witch’s_ name with such venom makes Macy’s heart sing a little. “Yeah, well that part was non-negotiable; she’s Maggie’s ticket in.”

“I don’t regret taking the time to talk to Kat, that was really important, but I really wish I had been there to convince Maggie to let us come,” Mel grouses. “Not that I don’t think you could’ve done it or didn’t do it well enough – it’s your inalienable right as an older sister.” 

Macy smiles at Mel, the warmth of her affection tickling pleasantly in her belly. “Thanks,” she beams. “But if you had been there you would’ve seen how important this was to Maggie; it didn’t matter what we said, she wasn’t really asking for permission.”

Mel flails briefly. “I hate feeling like this,” she says as she stares listlessly at the ceiling. “I woke up this morning stuck, unemployed and powerless. Now I can officially say I can cross something off that list.” She quickly tells Macy about Kat leaving the keys to Spellbound in her possession, along with her plea to run the store.

Macy blinks. “Mel, that’s great!” 

“Yeah, so I’m going to need help, but at least it means our own access to Safe Space independent of Maggie and we’ll be bringing money in,” she says. “I know retail is a big step down from geneticist but staring at the witchboard all day can’t be healthy for you.”

Something twinges inside of Macy and she shoves it down and puts a heavy lid on it. “Anything to help,” she says.

There’s a soft knock on her open door and both women turn to see Harry, eyebrows raised in hopeful expectation. “Apologies for interrupting; may I come in?”

“Sure,” Mel says, and Macy wonders if she’ll ever get used to her sisters and the ease in which they tend to answer questions for her. 

“Have either of you heard anything from Maggie yet? It’s almost two in the morning and she should have returned by now,” he says. Worry has hammered his eyebrows into a furrow, and he looks tired.

“Why are you so concerned, Harry?” Macy tilts her head, her smile thin. “I thought you wanted us to work with Abby.”

Mel glances at her sister and raises an eyebrow at the sudden shift in mood. 

Harry does not look impressed. “No, she’s a necessary means to an end that I’m loathed to avoid when it may bring us closer to our goal.”

Mel’s gaze shifts to Harry, who is silently staring back at Macy, who hasn’t blinked since he walked into her room. “Ookay, I’m gonna go,” she announces as she slides off the bed. She may as well have said it to herself because neither of them is paying her any attention. She thinks back to the drawing in Macy’s journal and she almost says something but the air in the room is souring quickly and she would rather be worrying, alone in her room rather than be here for … whatever this is going on. “See you guys in the morning.”

“Good night, Mel,” Harry says as she brushes past, and uses the interruption to tear his attention away from Macy. “So not even a text?” he asks. Not having any idea of what Maggie was dealing with is messing with his inner Whitelighter sense and it feels like ants crawling beneath his skin. Even without the awareness, he holds Maggie very close to his heart and the concern he has for her well-being is distracting at best.

“No,” Macy says softly. “Nothing since they stepped through that portal earlier today.”

Harry nods once and finally looks back at her. “Did you sleep well last night?” 

Macy’s taken aback by the question. “Yes,” she says, almost unsure. “No dreams at all, I think. At least no visitors,” she adds.

“Considering circumstances, that’s to be expected.” Macy watches as he seems to go within himself briefly, staring into the middle distance like it holds some sort of discomfort for him. “Well, I shan’t hold you up any longer. You still need your rest.”

At those words, Macy realizes she is tired. “So do you,” she reminds him as he turns to go. “Parker isn’t going to let anything happen to Maggie and she has a marble; she can get away if she needs,” Macy continues when he turns back to her. 

Harry sees… _something_ in her gaze and the fight seeps out of him like water from a sieve. “You’re right,” he says softly, with a smile. “Perhaps a bit of rest is to be had by all tonight. Good night, Macy.”

Macy nods, frustrating fondness twisting her lips with an almost smile. When Harry closes the door behind him, she takes another glance at her phone – still nothing from Maggie. She double checks the volume of her notification chime is turned to the maximum before quickly changing her clothes and diving between her sheets.

She’s out before she hits the pillow.

~*~

“That looks fun.”

Harry fights to open his eyes, and when he does his heart skips a beat at the fond expression gracing Macy’s face.

“Macy,” he breathes, and the resulting smile warms him like the sun from the inside out. 

“Think there’s room for me?” she asks. 

Room for her where? 

Harry glances down and finds he’s reclining on a wide hammock. When did he? He looks back up at Macy, who covers her mouth, but he can see her shoulders shake with suppressed laughter. His heart brightens and he wants to hear her laugh aloud again.

“You are a vision,” he says, which is the first and only thing to come to mind. 

A giggle slips before it turns into a full-blown laugh. It’s ambrosia to his ears and his soul.

“Oh, Harry,” she says, and he wants her to say his name like that for the rest of their lives. 

Immediately he realizes this must be a dream, but he doesn’t care. Whatever he did to deserve such a blessing he will appreciate the reprieve from what is rapidly feeling like his own personal hell. Harry reaches for Macy’s hand and he releases a shuddering laugh that would embarrass him under normal circumstances when her fingers twine through his. “I miss you,” he admits.

She searches his face. “I’ve missed you, too.”

Harry tugs her closer and Macy begins the perilous process of entering the hammock with him. As she bends it’s only then he takes a moment to look at anything other than her face now that he was sure she isn’t about to disappear. She’s wearing a simple, white cotton sundress and the faintly fragrant breeze plays with the hem of her dress as it falls around her thighs.

It rides up high as she climbs over him, and Harry grabs her waist just to stabilize her, he would swear on all things ancient and arcane if asked. Macy shifts over his groin and the accidental contact wrings a hiss from his throat; barely a brush and he’s already painfully hard. He hasn’t felt this mortification since he was a teenager!

If she notices Macy doesn’t mention it, and to his further gratitude, she tucks herself into his side, her head on his chest. The tension he doesn’t realize he’s holding dissipates, and they mold themselves around each other like they’ve been doing it their whole lives.

They sway back and forth in silence until Macy angles her face against the side of his neck. “You smell amazing,” she groans. “You always smell so good.”

Harry’s heart is beating hard in his chest.

How many nights has he lain in bed, dreaming up some inadequate facsimile of this woman? He can’t help but stare at her in wonder. “I am nothing compared to you,” he says, immediately mourning the distance she puts between them when she sits up abruptly. 

“Why do you say stuff like that?” she says.

Harry sits up as well, not bothering to question the dream physics of two people sitting up in a hammock. “Stuff like what?” he asks warily. 

“It sounds like you don’t think you matter. That you’re not allowed to have or want anything for yourself.” 

Immediately Harry feels a deep sense of shame and resentment. “It’s hard,” he admits.

Macy looks at him, and her expression softens by degrees. “What is?”

“Wanting more than to just _want_ ,” he admits, surprising himself at the honesty. “I don’t think I ever wanted to have this conversation with you.”

Macy tilts her head. “Why not?”

“Half the time I feel like I’m whining. The other half? I’m embarrassed,” he says. Her confusion prods him forward against his better judgment. “While I would honestly never trade my time as your Whitelighter the more I learn about how we were made the more unsure that I feel like an actual person.”

“Oh, Harry,” she breathes. 

Harry closes his eyes. “Please, no pity,” he says firmly. “I can take quite a lot, but I don’t think I can bear pity in your eyes. Not for me.”

“Harry.” 

He doesn’t look because if he doesn’t look then he won’t see how reduced he is in her eyes. 

“Harry Greenwood, are you really not going to look at me?” Macy moves close enough for him to feel a puff of breath against his cheek from her exhale. “I don’t pity you, Harry, and I wish you believed me.”

“I want –” Harry almost bites through his lips to keep the words falling from his mouth.

Macy tilts her head as she stares at his mouth. “What do you want?” she whispers. When she looks up, he’s looking right at her and the heat in his eyes gives her a shiver she can’t hide from him. “Harry?”

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and Macy blinks in surprise. “I wish I could tell you that every day because I don’t think there’s been one since I’ve known you that I haven’t thought it, even in passing.”

Macy marvels at her brain’s ability to still surprise her and her memory call forth small moments when she’s caught a strange expression on Harry’s face. Something she wasn’t sure she recognized.

She doesn’t realize she’s leaning forward until her nose gently rubs his. Macy can’t help but breathe his air because neither wants to move. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of her and she moves closer to throw her leg across Harry’s lap to straddle him. His hands land on her thighs and she squirms when his hands slide up just enough so about half his hand is beneath her skirt.

Macy gasps – she never expected something so… possessively forward from her – _their_! - buttoned-up Whitelighter. But right now, his hands feel immense as they keep moving up her legs and beneath her dress. She presses her face against his and nearly sobs with need. “Please,” she whimpers and cries out when he boldly grasps her bare ass and hauls her against the hard line of his front. “Harry!”

“Macy, I –”

Macy doesn’t want to talk; she wants to feel. She presses a quick kiss to Harry’s mouth before her courage flees. He stares up at her, shocked and obviously shaken. Before she can begin to wonder if this was all a misunderstanding, he closes the distance between them and kisses her back like he is trying to devour her.

She’s never had a kiss like this before, and Macy’s shaking like a leaf in Harry’s arms as he sets about to destroy her utterly. His hands are still on her ass and Macy can’t bring herself to care about her lack of underwear when she’s so wet so quickly. She’s trying her best not to grind against his lap, but her hips move at the pace he set and at this point there’s no chance there isn’t a wet spot on the front of Harry’s pants.

She breaks off the kiss to breathe and screams as one of his hands slides across her hip and cups her mound. The noise Harry makes jolts straight to her clit and makes her buck hard against his fingers, causing one to slip through her folds and bump against her clit insistently. 

“Oh my god, you’re so wet,” he groans, and Macy sits up, embarrassment hot on her face.

She looks around and realizes she’s not in a sunlit grove, but in her bedroom. Her heart is beating a mile a minute and her skin feels strange and tight.

Macy’s alone on her bed, not on a hammock with her Whitelighter.

 _Their_ Whitelighter. 

She falls back against her pillows and squeezes her thighs together. Macy doesn’t have to check but she does, her fingers gleam in the pre-dawn light filtering through her window. She’s soaked through her panties. She knows she should get up, clean herself up, change her underwear and go back to bed. 

Macy puts her hand back down her panties and shuts her eyes tightly as she imagines the finger she runs against her clit isn’t hers. “Oh fuck,” she whispers, her hips bucking at the sensation, doing it again and again. Her other hand comes up to tug at her tank top so the soft cotton drags against her hardened nipples. 

The combination of the sensations pushes Macy over the edge but it’s an extremely unsatisfying orgasm. She wants more, but she’s not going to get it right now. She knows better than to try and go back to sleep. She needs to clear her head – a shower and a shift at the witch board is exactly what she needs to get her focus back. 

She cannot afford to be off her game any more than usual these days. With renewed resolve, Macy climbs out of bed to reluctantly greet the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [TheShipSailsItself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShipSailsItself/pseuds/TheShipSailsItself) for their valuable editing skills.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Godric feels the need to remind Abigael of her priorities and promises. We see Macy's fallout after seeing Harry kiss Abigael, and how it fuels feelings of inadequacy she's been struggling with since adolescence. Warning, descriptions of racial microaggressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up right after Episode 8: The Rules of Engagement

“I don’t understand.”

Abigael looks up from the papers before her and raises an eyebrow. When Godric doesn’t continue she tosses the pen on the desk and sits back in her chair. “We both know telepathy isn’t one of my gifts, so if you want an answer you’ll have to elaborate,” she murmurs.

The small joke evaporates in the face of his frosty expression. “Your… predilection for the Charmed Ones’ Whitelighter.”

Abigael smiles. “Godric, I didn’t know you cared,” she purrs. When his stony expression doesn’t change the smile drops from her face and she shrugs a shoulder. “What is there to understand? I find him intriguing.”

Godric shakes his head. “The only thing that intrigues you is power.”

“And here I thought you knew me!” Abigael pretends to be offended. “You forgot sex,” she says cheekily. Her smile turns cold. “But you’re right; I am attracted to power and it just so happens what I want is contained in one body with a surprisingly tight bum.”

“Whitelighters are hardly more than pets for sanctimonious Elders; what possible purpose could you have for him?” Godric asks, the disdain dripping from his words.

“Aside as a trophy in my bed, you mean?” She grins at the thought. “You’re thinking of the old Whitelighters. The Elders are dead and he’s suddenly a rarity. The last of the Whitelighters. Why waste magic? I don’t care where it comes from, if it will bend to my will, I want to use it.”

Godric is intrigued. “And if it won’t bend?”

Abigael shrugs. “Then it will break; either way, plenty of fun to be had by all.” She tilts her head and regards her right-hand demon and advisor. “Why are you worried?”

“You’ve managed to ascend to the Overlord status, tentatively uniting the bloodlines. You’ve got the Charmed Ones believing they can trust you and you’re courting the Whitelighter. I just don’t want to see you lose sight of the ultimate goal.”

Abigael leans back to cross her ankles on her desk. “Can’t a girl multitask?”

Godric merely looks at her and the amusement falls away sullenly.

“I have not forgotten, Godric. I promised to fill the air with the screams of dying witches, reunify our people and solidify our kingdom, and elevate demons to our rightful place as the sole users of magic as we rule over the wretches of humanity.”

“We can’t afford to be cavalier; not at this stage of our plans.”

Abigael clenches her jaw. “ _Our_ plans,” she repeats darkly.

Godric tilts his head. “Yes, _our_ plans,” he retorts. “And when I came to you with my plans you agreed to both them _and_ my payment, or have you forgotten?”

Abigael can crack a walnut in her jaw she is so angry. “I haven’t forgotten,” she grits.

“I don’t want your hand; I don’t want your bed. I want what was promised. No more, no less.”

Abigael stares at him balefully until he turns on his smartly dressed heel and leaves without another look back. She can’t avoid what’s right in front of her – she has no intention of sharing her reign. But she must be absolutely prepared before she can get rid of Godric; through him, she maintains the bloodlines’ fealty. If they’re going to continue to rally behind her without his influence Abigael will need to _inspire_.

Loyalty can be bought, sold, or lost. No, she’ll need something more powerful than that to remain the Overlord.

She will need to inspire faith.

If prophecy provided her a path to the throne, then perhaps it can reveal to her how to keep it.

~*~

Macy’s never been so thankful to not have her telekinesis; she recognizes she is currently a danger to others – her hands and arms feel hot beneath her jacket and she knows she’s a moment from bursting into flames _literally_.

One foot in front of the other.

The sound of her footfalls is the only thing Macy can reasonably concentrate on – that and not setting herself on fire; the sounds of Seattle are dim in comparison to the heartbeat in her ears.

One foot in front of the other.

How could she be so stupid?

The thought catches her off guard, slipping beneath the hastily raised walls to stab her in the lung.

Macy chokes off a gasp and reflexively presses her hand against her mouth as if that will stop the deluge sure to follow. Her arm shakes with the weight of what she’s holding back, and she stumbles to a park bench before her legs give way.

She stares at her shoes until spots begin to form in front of her eyes.

Macy hasn’t had this issue in years – experiencing emotions so big they blot out what should be an automatic function. Her body is refusing to inhale.

 _Breathe, Macy_ , she hears her father’s voice say. It sounds so far away but it’s just enough so she struggles not to pass out in the middle of a public park at night.

Her arms, legs, and head feel like they’re filled with lead and she can feel her heart beating inside her temples. The edge of unconsciousness rushing toward her and its only then whatever comes over her releases her lungs and she can breathe in.

And with her breath out goes the rigid tension in her body and she splays boneless on the bench. Emotions are stupid, messy and though Macy tries to avoid the more volatile ones humanity is constantly subjected to, she’s never able to escape them for long.

She touches the patch of skin just below the hollow of her throat and imagines she can feel the necklace she had to sacrifice in order to excise the Source and tries to imagine feeling centered. Calm. Tranquil.

She can’t breathe in.

 _Doctor Macy Vaughn, you are not going to have a panic attack on a park bench in the middle of the night_ ,” she tells herself firmly. Though, her body decides otherwise. Just as Macy is sure she’s going to pass out she coughs; that strange tickle has returned to the back of her throat and as she sucks in air, she swears she tastes something not quite sweet and what she thinks is… Marjoram?

The darkness recedes again but this time completely and Macy’s begins to stabilize; the tight, panicking feeling in her chest, hands, and head lessen considerably, leaving her with consciousness but also with her sadness, though it feels muted now. But still, one nagging question remains.

How could she have been so stupid?

Macy falls backward into a memory from eleventh grade; she’s standing taller than most of the girls in her class and a number of the boys but Sean taller than her and one day he asks her to walk with him from Latin to Debate but leads her the long way around past Covington Hall. It’s so far out the way of most classes it’s hardly used, and he takes her hand and gives her what she’d built up as the end-all, be-all, of high school life – her first real kiss.

Macy feels like a changed person; maybe this is what she needs to finally fit in – with herself and her classmates, or at least the girls in the dorm. They walk together every day that week, and every day Macy lives for those five minutes between Latin and Debate where Sean pulls her off the sidewalk and against a tree and kisses her silly. Giddy and on cloud nine, it takes Macy another week before she realizes what’s just around the corner – the Fall Formal, one of Huntington Prep’s most prestigious and anticipated events. Everyone who’s anyone shows up dressed to impress to dance the night away.

In three years, she’s never been asked but that was _before_ Macy, pre-kiss Macy. Post-kiss Macy is sure Sean is going to ask her to go with him she’ll get to go to a dance on the arm of one of the campus’ most handsome boys. She will be pretty and elegant and everything she wishes she could always be and Macy wonders if maybe she’s finally hit that stride her father always talks about.

She goes shopping with a few girls she tells herself and her father are friends from her dorm. Macy’s never gone shopping with a group of girls before and finds herself mostly silent while they plow through rack after rack of formal gowns before they begin trying them on and posing before a big mirror at the back of the store and cheer each other on.

Macy is honest and tells everyone they look amazing, and eventually, it’s her turn. She tries a silver dress that clings and drapes in such a way she hardly recognizes herself in the mirror and makes her heart jump – she looks like a woman! Macy steps out confidently and is met with silence and strange expressions; did she miscalculate that badly? She stands in front of the mirror and twists back and forth to see if she can determine the cause of the shift in the mood but doesn’t notice anything herself.

In the mirror, she watches Molly breaks away from the group amidst a flurry of whispers to stand beside her with a concerned expression on her face. “Macy, you know I love you, right?”

Macy doesn’t know what to do with her face when presented with so blatant a lie so she just nods.

“First, that color looks really, really good on you,” she reassures her.

“Thanks,” Macy beams.

“Yeah, we didn’t think it’d work with your skin color, you know. But you can rock it for sure.”

Macy blinks. “Um, thanks?”

“Yeah, but the girls and I think you should go with something with a fuller skirt, you know? Don’t you think?” Molly’s smile doesn’t change.

Macy’s taken aback. “Well, I don’t normally like big dresses,” she says. “And this fits and it’s long enough so Mrs. Morgan can’t say something about it.”

“Yeah, but, I mean, don’t you think you look a little… ghetto?”

Something freezes inside Macy. “It’s… it’s a three-hundred-dollar dress.”

Molly laughs at Macy like she made a joke. “No, silly, I mean, it’s just that guys are gonna stare at your ass all night and I know you don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.”

Macy shrinks a few inches and swallows around the sudden obstruction in her throat; Molly’s dress is almost low enough to constitute a dress code violation, but she’s concerned about _her_ dress?

“Uh…” Macy doesn’t know what to say.

“Go try on the peach one you put back on the rack; everyone thinks you’re stupid for not choosing that one. You’ll look so gorgeous in it.”

Macy has no choice but to retreat in the literal face of Molly’s cheerful assistance and grabs the dress from the rack before ducking back inside the changing room. When she comes out all the girls coo and exclaim, shoving her in front of the mirror excitedly.

The skirt consists of a billion yards of tulle and brushes the tops of her feet as she walks, and the bodice is… okay? It’s strapless and cuts across her chest somewhat awkwardly. It’s an objectively pretty dress, but it was constructed with someone else’s body type in mind – that was glaringly obvious.

Macy buys it anyway.

When they move on to buy shoes Molly pulls her aside with concern. “Are you mad at me?” she asks.

“No,” she says hastily. “I’m just… tired,” she says, unenthusiastically clutching her dress bag.

“I’m just looking out for you, Macy,” Molly reassures her. “I did you a major favor; you don’t want people thinking you’re like that,” she whispers loudly.

Like what?

Macy doesn’t ask and when everyone’s trying to match their dress with a pair of elegant and gorgeous heels, Molly drops a pair of salmon-colored flats in her lap. “I’m thinking about these instead,” Macy says, holding up a pair of stilettos that glitter with peach rhinestones. They match her dress perfectly and she’s starting to feel excited again.

“Macy, god, what are you doing?” Another girl, Amy, disguises her laugh as a cough. “Don’t you know you should never be taller than your date?”

Molly’s smile is self-satisfied. “See,” she tells Macy, practically snatching the heels from her and handing them to the hapless salesperson standing by warily. “These are better.”

Macy feels her face grow hot. The flats in the box are more orange than peach and the bow on top looks childish and more like an afterthought. “I don’t really like these,” she says slowly, trying to keep her voice light.

Molly shrugs. “I mean, it’s up to you but you’re already tall enough, Macy; you don’t _wanna look like a guy_.”

Macy feels like she’s just been slapped in the face. “Oh, right,” she says, nodding quickly. “You’re right. Thanks.”

Molly beams and sits next to her on the bench. “Now let’s go get your hair taken care of,” she says excitedly, reaching up to try and run her fingers through Macy’s hair. “Oh wow, you guys come feel - it’s so much softer than we thought!”

Before Macy can react, she feels multiple hands twisting and pulling. She yelps and pries the hands out of her hair while trying to look like she’s laughing it off. “I’m sorry but really don’t like people touching my hair,” she says apologetically as possible. Macy can’t help but feel she was one step from going back home, alone, to the dorm and left to navigate her way through the most important function of her life by herself. She can’t afford to make these girls change their minds about her.

“God, why are you acting like that? It’s no big deal, we’re just curious, but whatever. Are you going to fix it for the formal?” Molly asks.

Macy was just going to buy a pretty headband and put it up in her customary bun but instead of its normal severity she’d play it flirty and leave out a few tendrils here and there like all the heroines in her books did when they got to the big make-over part of the story. “Fix it?”

“I’ve got a flatiron you can use. Are you going to need to buy grease or something? Because I don’t want that junk on my shit,” Amy laughs out as Molly joins her.

Macy’s face feels hot. “Oh, no, I can get my own flatiron,” she says quickly.

Amy nods. “Yeah, you’ll probably have to get one with a higher heat setting to wrestle all that down.”

Two days before the dance Macy’s flatiron arrives and she watches as many hair tutorials as she can and spends hours and hours abusing heat and hair products until she doesn’t recognize herself. Her curls are gone and what she’s left with feels like dry straw and she hears crinkling when she moves.

It’s so bad Macy it ends up in a ponytail anyway and her hair still looks supernaturally stiff and lifeless and she’s pretty sure she’s burned a good deal of her scalp and some of her fingers. She opens the window to help dissipate the smell of burnt hair, but it doesn’t leave her nostrils. Macy resorts to spraying some perfume when the bathroom door that leads to Molly’s room opens and Macy just stops in awe.

Molly’s long brown hair is softly curled around her artfully made-up face. Her dress is a pink and silver cocktail dress with a floating, flirty hemline that dances to a non-existent wind in the grey area between the tops of one’s knees and the bottom of one’s thighs. It makes Molly’s legs look endless, but they do, in fact, end because she’s wearing glittering silver stilettos that leave her dainty feet mostly bare save for the shining straps around her ankle and across the tops of her toes. The heels are tall enough it puts Molly at Macy’s height in her stocking feet.

Macy feels dread begin to pool in her stomach.

“Oh god, what’s that smell,” Molly asks as she waves her hand in front of her face and grimaces.

“Nothing,” Macy says quickly. “I’m just trying to finish getting ready.”

“Yeah, so am I, but you’re hogging the bathroom. I just wanted to see my make-up.” Molly stands in front of the mirror and fluffs her hair while she eyes Macy. “When are you going to do your make up?”

Macy owns an unopened bottle of concealer and a compact of powder that isn’t quite the right shade and she honestly wouldn’t know what she was doing even if it didn’t make her look like Casper the Negro Ghost.

Hair tutorials took up all her time and energy and she clearly learned nothing. No need to go looking like a clown, too. “I’m not wearing any,” she says.

“Great,” Molly announces. “Hurry up and put on your dress then; a bunch of us are going to Eli’s.”

“Wait, what, now?” Macy asks. Eli’s is a somewhat upscale restaurant in the middle of downtown Hartford, forty minutes away _at least_.

“Yeah, we wanna eat before we go to the dance. My dad got me a stretch limo so we can do tonight in style,” she says as she dances in place. “So, you and your date can just come with.” Molly pauses. “Actually, who _is_ your date?”

Macy feels itchy all over and she’s thinking about her dress and if all her friends look even half as good as Molly, Macy’s going to look like someone’s colored grandmother. Her stomach is sinking rapidly, and her dream of a perfect night is swirling down the drain.

“Sean,” she says, her heart beating loudly in her chest.

Molly looks at her in the mirror-like she’s grown another head. “…Wait, Sean? Sean Matthews with the cheekbones and the Porsche – that Sean?”

Macy licks her lips. “Yeah,” she says, but it comes out mostly a croak.

Molly whirls around, her face unreadable. “When did he ask you?” she demands. “When?” she barks when an answer doesn’t come fast enough.

Macy opens her mouth, but nothing comes out as cold realization washes over her.

…He never _actually_ asked her.

The helpless mortification slams Macy back to the present but she doesn’t want to be there where it feels the same, either. But unfortunately, she doesn’t have a choice in that matter, no matter how much it hurts.

The text notification on her phone startles her; it’s Mel and she’s needed back at the house immediately. Macy briefly entertains ignoring it, but something tells her she shouldn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [TheShipSailsItself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShipSailsItself/pseuds/TheShipSailsItself) for their valuable editing skills.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotions, am I right?

Mel isn’t prying.

She tells herself this as she tries to stop staring at her phone. Nothing from Macy or Harry; how is she supposed to stay sane when no one’s telling her anything?! Mel stares, unseeing, at the kettle in the sink as it fills and overflows with water. It’s the only sound in the house right now and it makes her fall into herself as the water pours over her hand and down the sink.

“Mel!”

She startles, blinking as Harry quickly pulls her hand from the water. He checks her for injuries before turning off the water.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

Mel pulls her hand from his and rolls her shoulder self-consciously. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just climbed a little too far into my own head I guess, sorry,” she says, staring strangely at the kettle in the sink. “I’m supposed to be making tea,” she says slowly.

“Good. I have something I’d like to speak to you and your sisters about. How is Maggie?” Harry asks, sparing a concerned glance at the ceiling.

“Sleeping,” Mel confirms. “I think she was faking when she claimed she wanted to sleep. When Macy and I left her to it I circled back around not long after and I swore I could hear her crying. I wanted to comfort her, but I didn’t know what to say,” she admits as she hefts the full kettle onto the stove. “I might not have liked Parker, but Maggie loved him and that’s all that matters. So, I just…” Mel shrugs a shoulder helplessly.

Harry smiles softly. “Left her to cry,” he supplies.

Mel groans. “That sounds horrible. Am I a horrible sister?” she asks as she turns on the stove.

“That’s not what I’m saying, Mel,” he says.

“I heard it like that,” she says.

Harry gives her an unimpressed glance.

“Melanie, as much as we’re loathed to admit, grief is often something that requires personal and private work. If it remains healthy,” Harry adds. “Maggie has to come to terms with this new reality in her own time. All we can do is stand by and make sure she understands we're here for her.”

Mel sighs and eventually nods. “Wait, where’s Macy?” she asks.

Harry frowns. “She’s not here?”

“No, I said she left earlier. You didn’t see her?”

“I did not.” Harry’s frown deepens.

Mel is confused. “That doesn’t make any sense. That was the only reason why she was going out; she was going to talk to you,” she says.

Harry is taken aback. “To me?” he stammers. “What would she need to talk to me about that couldn’t wait until I return?”

Mel’s skin prickles with the effort to protect her sister’s privacy. “She just said she wanted to talk to you,” she says, staring back at the kettle on the stove. “Shit, I didn’t turn it on,” she mutters.

Harry watches Mel turn the knob with concentration unnecessary for such a mundane task. “Mel, are you sure you don’t know why Macy wished to speak to me?”

“You’ll have to ask her,” Mel says without turning around.

Harry’s mouth flattens into a thin line. One of Mel’s tells is her inability to look one in the eye when she’s being evasive, and the fact she can’t even peek in his direction has his heart hammering in his chest.

He takes out his phone and pauses. “Perhaps you should tell her to come home, and that it’s important.” Harry’s not quite sure what’s going on, but with the strain between him and Macy something tells him a missive from Mel would be better welcomed at this time.

It seems that lately all he and Macy can do is snipe; why would she be seeking him out at this time of night? What could she possibly want to discuss that would impel her to leave Maggie’s side, let alone the house?

Never mind Macy had to know he was in the command center; he should’ve –

Oh no.

Oh god, no.

“Harry, are you okay? You look like someone just walked over your grave.” Harry looks at Mel and she ducks her head at his expression. “Sorry, I keep forgetting that’s a real possibility for you. You look like you’re about to throw up; is that better?” she asks.

No, not really.

“I’m fine,” Harry says.

It’s Mel’s turn to look at him knowingly. “Don’t lie to me, old man,” she jokes. When it doesn’t crack the discomfited expression on his face something settles strangely in her chest. “If you don’t want to talk about it, fine, but what’s your news?” she asks as she grabs her phone from the counter to quickly dash off a text to Macy. “Should I wake Maggie?” she asks as she puts her phone down.

Harry shakes his head. “There is no need. We can tell her tomorrow. She needs her rest.” He leans against the counter, his hands trapped between where they can’t belie his sudden and dawning horror, and the pressure keeps the mounting desire to vomit at bay.

For now.

His traitorous brain does not leave well enough alone. What if Macy saw him in the arms of Abigael or worse, saw him _kiss_ her? Intellectually, Harry knows they’re not in a relationship of that nature nor does he owe Macy any explanation for what he does with his body and another consenting adult.

His heart, on the other hand, is having none of that bullshit.

The enthusiasm he’d previously had for his plan wanes more and more as time goes in and he begins to wonder at the wisdom of his choices; in his deep desire to be useful and protect his charges – his _family_ – has he done the wrong thing?

Harry tugs at the collar of his shirt and suddenly feels hot all over. “I’m going to change before Macy returns. If you’ll excuse me,” he murmurs, doing his best not to flee before Mel’s silently questioning stare.

He doesn’t stop until he’s in his room, leaning against the door as if that will keep his feelings from following. Harry feels his stomach clench and it’s from sheer force of will that he doesn’t throw up what little is in his stomach. Many people think he’s stodgy, emotionally staid or worse, impossibly innocent.

As a Whitelighter it served him to be underestimated; to come across as non-threatening as possible was something Harry did because the comfort of his charges was his utmost concern. Years of being seen as a sexless tool kept boundaries in place and let him work as he needed when needed.

What good is an advisor if you’re never asked for advice?

Being around the Charmed Ones, being not only accepted but encouraged to be and feel however he wished without incrimination or being made to feel guilty… Harry slowly began learning himself again, one painful step at a time. Unfortunately, when in the company of anyone else largely unknown to their group, Harry finds he still falls back on that well-worn persona.

So of course, Abigael - being a hedonistic megalomaniac - is drawn to anything she perceives as innocence, with the sole purpose of breaking or corrupting it. He doesn’t labor under the impression he’s special to her, he’s just a vessel currently in her sights. He’d cottoned her same curiosity often aimed in Macy’s direction. He’s quite sure if the eldest Charmed One had any inclination toward the fairer sex Abigael would have pressed her seduction.

While Macy may in large part _be_ innocent, she has a backbone of fire and a righteous instinct paired well with a deep intelligence that serves her well. Which is why it’s so frustrating to see her struggle with the idea that Abigael is a tool that can and should be used.

Harry can’t ignore the growing suspicion gnawing at the back of his mind that Macy did arrive as planned at the command center but turned away after being confronted by him either with his arms around or his mouth on Abigael.

His phone buzzes in his pants and pulls Harry out of his head to quickly change. He throws on something simple and unassuming, pale blue button-down shirt and khaki slacks. Harry ponders taking a moment to brush his teeth but his phone buzzes again on the bed where he’d thrown it. 

_Tea’s ready_.

 _Macy’s here do you still want to talk to us both_?

Harry exits his room before he can change his mind.

~*~

As soon as the front door closes behind her, Macy’s changed her mind. She doesn’t want to talk about anything, she wants to go upstairs and climb into her bed alone so she can begin to pretend like today never happened.

Against her better judgment she slips out of her jacket and puts it away before she follows the small sounds she can hear in the kitchen. When Macy turns the corner and finds only Mel she almost collapses beneath the weight of her relief.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Mel asks as she takes the tray of tea to the table. “I thought you were going to the command center to talk to Harry.”

Macy swallows around the rock lodged in her throat. “I missed him, so I decided to take a walk,” she says, avoiding Mel’s gaze as she sits in her customary chair. “So, what’s the emergency?”

Mel shrugs as she places the sugar bowl closer to her sister’s general direction while she stares down at her phone, firing off a quick message. “Harry just said he wanted to talk to the both of us,” she says, narrowly missing the way Macy stiffens in her chair.

“I think I might head on up,” Macy says quickly. “I’m tired and it’s been a long day.”

“I understand, and ladies I will endeavor to be quick.”

Macy is immediately thrown back to that moment and she can see the desperation in which Harry holds Abigael.

She wants to throw up.

She doesn’t want to be at this table.

“Macy?” Harry looks concerned and a little wary as he settles in a chair at the other end of the table. “Are you alright?”

Macy takes a swallow of the tea to cover her desire to scream. The warm liquid flows down her throat and she imagines it taking all her volatile emotions with it, down her esophagus and into the acid of her stomach where they burn away.

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice steady. “What is it, Harry?”

He clears his throat. “I kissed Abigael. Well, she kissed me first,” he amends. “Then… I kissed her back.”

Mel blinks and glances wide-eyed at Macy. “You what?” she asks.

Harry laughs nervously as he runs his hand through his hair. “I think I need something stronger than tea,” he laments. He sneaks a glance at Macy and finds he can’t look away from her stony expression. “Macy?” he asks when almost a full minute passes without a reaction from her.

“Oh, am I supposed to yell and throw things?” Macy asks, tilting her head.

Harry blinks. “What? No, I just-”

“Are you asking for our blessing to be together? You can do whatever you want, Harry; you’re not bound or beholden to us,” she reminds him, tilting her head coldly.

“Hold on,” Mel sputters.

Harry’s confusion flattens into irritation. “No,” he says again. “I just-”

“You’re a grown man, Harry,” Macy interrupts again. “You can stick your tongue in anything that floats your boat.”

He narrows his eyes at her in utter astonishment and he leans forward. “Bloody hell, Macy, that’s not why I’m telling you – either of you – this,” he says.

Macy shrugs a shoulder. “Then why do we need a blow by blow of your sex life?”

Harry sits back at that. “What – have you gone mad? I didn’t kiss her because I’m interested, I kissed her because she’s so sure I am,” he spits.

Mel sits back as well, eyes wide. “Oh,” she says knowingly. “Oh wow.” She looks at him gingerly. “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

Macy works her jaw as she beats back her temper yet again. It felt good to lash out at Harry, who is still staring at her like he can’t figure her out. “Up for what, demonic sex?” she snaps at her sister.

Mel glances at her worriedly. “No, Mace; he’s going to be the honeypot,” she says derisively.

Macy crosses her arms. “The what?”

“I want Abigael to think she’s intrigued me; that she’s turning my head. It gives me a reason to drop by and keep tabs on her without arousing suspicion,” Harry said flatly.

Macy can hear her heart beating in her ears again. “That’s why you kissed her?” she asks, holding on to her control tightly.

Harry’s shoulders droop. “The only reason,” he says.

Macy needs to get out of the kitchen before she does something stupid like launching herself in Harry’s general direction so she can wring his neck and kiss his stupid face. “Now we know,” she says thickly, and practically bolts from the table and up the stairs, grateful no one calls after her or follows behind.

Once she’s got a door between her and the rest of the world, Macy slides down the wood and hits the floor abruptly. He doesn’t secretly lust after Abigael. It’s just a ruse. Hell, she can understand the logic that leads someone down that type of road.

But still, she can’t tell him how she feels; what will that do? If he still feels the way he told Maggie and Mel, then it’ll throw off his ‘performance’ because Harry Greenwood cannot hide his emotions for anything.

At that she pauses – she would’ve said that just yesterday, but he _sold_ that kiss.

Macy shoves everything she’s feeling down further and further until she finds the strength to stand up again. Is this what love is supposed to be? Constantly at a disadvantage with no end in sight? A raw aching in your chest for one reason or another? First Galvin and now Harry?

Two very different men but she’s left holding what feels like the same bag of feelings, threatening to get out of control all the same. “If this is love, I don’t want it,” she whispers to her empty room. “I don’t want any of it.”

Extreme exhaustion settles in her bones and Macy doesn’t bother to put on pajamas. Instead, she strips off her clothes and leaves them where they fall in favor of diving into bed and blessedly sleep arrives before the tears can come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [TheShipSailsItself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShipSailsItself/pseuds/TheShipSailsItself) for their valuable editing skills.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams are where we go to work out the stuff we can't deal with while awake. Usually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is risque, to say the least. Fair warning - clock the rating.

Macy might be prone to social awkwardness but there is one event where she can’t help but shine – the venture capital fundraiser. She would be a poor scientist indeed if she couldn’t wax euphoric about her own research or handily break down the complexity behind the more exciting works coming out of the university lab to where any layperson inclined to write a few zeroes on a check can understand. 

She floats around the ballroom, providing information to fellow scientists or backing up claims as needed. Macy can do this – it’s not about _her_ , it’s about the lab and the great scientists she has the pleasure of working with day in and day out. She feels competent and confident.

As good as she is, she’s never felt this _persuasive_ before; the ease in which she charms the potential donors and current benefactors feels almost unreal. Every joke she makes lands perfectly and she hasn’t made one misstep during the four times she’s spun around the dance floor. It’s like a dream.

Oh. _Oh_.

Macy hears her name and ignores it; it was fairly obvious they weren’t calling for her as she sees people hide behind glasses and hands, watching her. Her step almost falters and its sheer force of will that keeps her from panicking in front of everyone. What is everyone suddenly so desperate to talk about?

Is it her hair?

Yes, normally she has it done in a fancy up-do, but she left the lab too late to make it to her salon appointment and decided to leave it down around her shoulders for once. She’s not the only one who elected to do the same!

She should’ve worn flats.

Gazes linger on the exposed skin of her back and Macy wonders if her dress is wrong or worse – the dress is beautiful, but _she_ doesn’t look beautiful in it. The sensation of being out of place and wrong-footed wells like bile at the back of her throat; humiliation curves her spine in on itself as she attempts to shrink away from the recriminating eyes and whispers. 

Maybe she can slip out the back and-

“Macy?”

“Harry,” she breathes, almost dizzy with relief as he slips into her view. As soon as his hand reaches out and touches her wrist, she remembers she’s supposed to be angry at him, but she can’t recall why. But it doesn’t matter for some reason. “What are you doing here?”

Harry frowns. “Doing my best to represent the Women’s Study Department, of course,” he says. “Am I doing that bad a job?”

 _Oh, right_ , Macy thinks. The event is for the whole university, not just the lab. 

“No, no,” she quickly reassures him, suddenly aware of the gentle sensation at her wrist – its Harry’s thumb rubbing back and forth comfortingly. 

“Macy, are you alright?”

Macy wants to lie but the soft look in his eye pulls the truth from her. 

“No,” she whispers.

Harry nods and squeezes her wrist once. “Why don’t we find somewhere quiet to talk?”

Macy lets him lead her away from the ballroom and out into a hallway. There were fewer people out here, so she expects him to pull her over to an empty, darkened corner. Instead, Harry continues to move them down the hall until they come to a set of double doors. He twists the large knob and the door swings open silently. 

“In here,” he murmurs at her ear.

Macy can’t suppress the shudder that rolls through her body, and she ducks her head to slide past him into the room. It’s not entirely dark, what with the large full moon streaming through the floor to ceiling windows in heavy silver beams. It’s bright enough to illuminate the books on the walls and Macy gasps softly. 

“A library,” she says admiringly. “But how did you know this was here?” she asks him.

Harry’s smile turns puzzled. “I think I must have come across it at some point tonight,” he says. “I mean, I must’ve…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t bring you here to talk about this room.” 

Macy continues further into the room but doesn’t look at him. “Why did you bring me here?” she asks as she runs her fingers along gilded spines. She swallows when Harry’s hand comes up to cover her own. It remains there momentarily until he folds his fingers around hers and turns her around to face him.

“Because I was concerned,” he says, staring up at her so earnestly her heart jumps. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine. I mean there’s nothing to talk about,” Macy tries to reassure him.

Harry purses his lips and looks as close to disappointed as one can be. “Macy,” he cajoles gently. “You can talk to me about anything, remember?”

Macy stares into his eyes and nods after a moment. She does know that. “I don’t know what happened,” she admits.

“What do you mean?”

Macy leans back against the books, putting an extra couple of inches between them. When had he gotten so close? She feels the heat of shame on her face and embarrassment stays her tongue. Worst of all when she looks at Harry, she sees nothing but understanding. 

“You were overwhelmed?” he prompts. 

Macy nods and takes a deep breath. “I love talking about my work, especially to people who are actually interested. I’m proud of what I do and where I work.”

Harry smiles. “I noticed. You seemed to be in your element.”

Macy looks away. “ _Seemed_ being the operative word,” she mutters.

“Whatever do you mean?”

“Sometimes the voice in the back of mind gets a little loud,” she says.

“The voice that tells you you’re not good enough. That you’re not supposed to be here?” Harry asks, his expression a little wistful.

“You sound like you know that voice, too,” Macy whispers. 

“Oh, that voice and I are old friends, Doctor Vaughn,” he teases.

“And here I thought we were exclusive.” Macy can’t help the chuckle, and it's then that she realizes her hand is still in his. “What do you do when it gets too loud?” she asks, instead of asking the real question she had at the tip of her tongue – why haven’t you let go of my hand?

Maybe if she doesn’t ask the question, he won’t let her go.

“I try to return to what previously made me feel comfortable. Some days I can just ignore it until it goes away. Those are good days.”

Macy agrees. “And when you can’t just ignore it? When you almost burst into tears like you’re drunk or unstable at a work event?”

“Ah, the bad days.” Harry tilts his head as he considers it. “I find a quiet place where I can exist without expectations – even my own – until I can beat that voice back to where it belongs.”

“I don’t even know what happened. I thought I was enjoying myself and then…” She shakes her head. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

Harry looks stricken. “Never,” he says fiercely. “Nothing you could ever say or do would be something I could ever hope to categorize as _stupid_ , Macy Vaughn.”

Macy’s smile is tight. “I know,” she says seriously. 

“So, will you tell me what happened?”

“I heard people talking about me,” she says finally, having to look away from him in order to get the words out. They sound weak and whiny to her own ears and though Harry says she can never sound stupid to him, he hasn’t said anything about idiotic, self-absorbed or paranoid.

“Really? What were they saying?” he asks. 

Macy opens her mouth and closes it, puzzled. “I… I didn’t catch anything but my name,” she admits after a moment. “But everyone was whispering and looking at me and I realized –” She laughs to cover the depth of her despair, and inhales shakily. 

Harry moves closer to touch her chin gently with the back of his forefinger, turning it so she can look down into his eyes. “What did you realize?” he asks softly.

“I heard someone make a comment about my hair,” Macy says. “And I should be used to that by now, but after I was dancing with an alumnus and he was staring at my hair when he wasn’t staring at my dress. It was then I realized that maybe the dress I chose looks better on the display than it does on me. Again, that’s happened to me plenty of times and I am used to it but just…”

“You lost all your confidence,” he supplies.

Macy snaps her fingers ruefully. “Just like that.”

Harry nods understandingly. “I don’t wish to pretend I know what other people were thinking tonight, but may I share what I’ve seen?”

Macy’s tight frown lifts into a fond, small smile. “You don’t have to do that, Harry.” She ducks her head.

“I think I do,” he disagrees. “And more so, I would be honored to do so.” Harry holds his breath until he watches her reluctantly stand up straight.

“Fine,” she says softly. “What is it that you’ve seen?”

He shivers at the immensity of her disquiet, refusing to stand by and let it continue to dim her light. “Tonight, I bore witness to a wonderfully self-assured woman as she provided engaging explanations for various complex concepts in such a way even the most uninitiated can understand and appreciate.” Triumph blooms when Macy’s beautiful mouth quirks into a quick smile. 

“I watched as you seemed to walk on air as you moved from group to group. Did you not notice how people perked as you came near?” he asks. “How easily you commanded attention just by walking by?”

“No,” she says softly. 

Harry steps closer, heart brimming with love and aching at the way her voice still sounds small. “People couldn’t help but fall silent with you near because they are hanging on your every word. Your utterly captivating face lights from within with a radiance borne of your excitement and delight you have for your chosen field. Even without using magic anyone nearby cannot help but be spellbound.”

“Oh, Harry,” she whispers.

He searches her gaze and marvels that she still does not believe him. “And Macy, people stare because you radiate tranquility when you are comfortable and in your element. That is an attractive quality, quite literally. Your hair and gown float about as you move around the room; as if you’re a goddess from above blessing mere mortals with your presence.”

Macy laughs softly. “Is that a tall joke?” 

“I know there are many men who have qualms dating someone of their height or taller,” Harry says primly. “But I am not one of them. Don’t diminish yourself for them.” He reaches for her waist, his fingers finally discovering how soft the material of her gown truly is. 

Harry glances down at her mouth as Macy bites at her lush bottom lip. “Everything about you is a gift, a revelation,” he murmurs, still struggling to move his eyes away from her lips. Macy takes a deep breath and immediately his eyes land on the dramatically plunging neckline of her dress, audaciously baring the warm brown skin of her sternum to his gaze. He feels dizzy with want; the need and desire to press his face against that skin is overwhelming, maddening. Instead, Harry trails the back of his knuckles ever so gently up Macy’s breastbone and steps even closer when her head falls back to expose the graceful column of her neck.

Harry does press his face there and he’s inordinately pleased he doesn’t have to crouch or contort in order to do so, either. In any heel of substantial height, Macy is elevated above most people in any given room, and it’s one of Harry’s secret pleasures to watch her own that physicality with quiet grace. 

“I have watched you all night, Doctor Vaughn,” he whispers against her petal-soft neck. 

“You have?” she asks, and Harry almost purrs at the way her voice sounds so _affected_.

“I have,” he confirms, and leans close enough to graze his lips against the apple of her cheek on his way toward her ear. “And would you like to know something else?” he whispers. Something in Harry’s chest roars in delight when he feels Macy’s shaky inhale. 

He’s too close, Harry _knows_ he is, but here and now he can ignore that voice and do what his body longs for. He presses himself against her and has to close his eyes at the soft, wanting sound that falls from Macy’s lips. Harry’s damned by the knowledge that if he were to turn his head, he could have those lips.

“There is _nothing_ , Doctor Vaughn, about this dress that isn’t absolutely enchanting.” Harry lets his hands drift down her arms, parting the gauzy fabric to reveal the silken skin of her biceps. “I watched as you traversed the room, turning this way and that and all I could hope for was a bit of a breeze to catch a glimpse of your smooth, brown skin.”

Harry feels the muscles beneath Macy’s arms flex. She’s grabbed hold of the lapels of his suit like they’re a lifeline. And in a move that leaves him reeling, she parts her thighs to pull him closer. Harry has no choice but to close the distance, letting his hands wander down her sides, groaning against the column of her throat. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the skin and parts the material of her skirt at the tops of her thighs to reveal a long slit.

With reverence, Harry touches the skin he finds with the barest tip of his fingers, luxuriating in the full-body shiver that slides through the woman in his arms. He licks his lips, desperate for what he can taste of Macy on his mouth but it’s no longer enough. Harry’s never before been able to imagine the complex notes that comprise the taste of Macy’s skin beneath his tongue, but now that he has?

He burns for more.

Before he can move, he becomes cognizant of soft pressure against his chest. With Herculean strength Harry climbs out of the haze he always succumbs to when too close to Macy for too long. 

Harry pulls back enough to see her face, and the uncertainty there breaks his heart. “Macy, what is it, my love?” He watches as her eyes widen. 

“…You love me?” she asks, hoarsely. 

Harry would have stumbled away if it weren’t for Macy’s hands at his elbows. “Yes,” he replies helplessly. “Forever and most ardently.”

She shakes her head minutely. “But you kissed Abigael,” she whispers, and Harry knows this is a dream because only his dream would be so cruel as to throw his half-baked plan back at him.

“Macy, I swear it was just a ruse, I swear it,” he says as he gathers her up in his arms, as if his hold can keep her despair at bay. Harry presses his face into her hair and breathes deep. The scent of her various oils fills his nostrils and calms his spirit, though his heart still beats a mile a minute. Harry feels a bit of wetness against his neck and he begins shaking his head frantically. “No, please don’t cry,” he implores.

He pulls back and begins desperately dropping kisses on her cheeks, focused on caressing her tears away. Harry presses one at the corner of her lips and pauses when Macy sighs, feeling her lashes against his cheek as her eyes flutter close. He kisses her there again, fascinated with how pliant her mouth feels against his. Harry rubs his nose against hers softly before his control slips and he kisses her fully on her lush lips. 

Harry has dreamt of kissing Macy Vaughn more times than he cares to admit, but nothing has ever felt like this before. Something akin to lightning arcs through his body and he pulls back in surprise. He licks his lips in wonder. 

“You taste of tears,” he whispers, and Macy’s smile is wan.

“Because I’ve been crying,” she whispers back.

“I don’t want you to cry,” Harry says as he cups her cheek gently. “What can I do?”

Macy leans into his touch. “Mean what you say,” she says, exhaling a whimpering gasp when his grasp tightens.

“I do,” he vows again. 

“I saw you when you kissed _her_.”

It was said so quietly Harry could almost believe he imagined it. His heart thuds in his head and he shakes it, both to decry the horror of the truth and the physical pain those words inflict. 

“Macy.” 

He seems to have trouble saying anything but her name, and he isn’t sure when moved close enough again to bump his nose against hers.

“So, Harry Greenwood, if you’re going to kiss me, you’ll need to convince me.” Harry sees the fire in her eyes and it’s his turn to experience an otherworldly shiver. “Convince me you feel more for me than your _ruse_ ,” she breathes into his mouth and it is as if someone’s thrown kerosene onto a pile of lit matches.

Harry fights against his baser instincts and kisses Macy softly, gently, and with reverence. He’s no fool, he doesn’t think she’ll break, but Harry also wants to show her how much she means to him. He gently coaxes her mouth open and his knees almost buckle at the feel of her tongue ever so gently brushing against his. She tastes like nothing he’s ever experienced before, headier than any satyr wine and twice as pleasing.

He tries, he really does, but once he gets a taste all timidity burns away and Harry licks into Macy as if she’s a sweet to devour with his tongue. She tilts her head and moans. Harry’s hand lingers at the hollow of her throat and as he moves his thumb he feels the eruption of gooseflesh as he drags his digit across her bared collarbone, pouring every single desire he’s harbored for her into the drag of his tongue as he explores her mouth, insisting upon taking her apart with a singular focus.

He needs to devastate her in a different way.

Eventually, the need for oxygen wins but Harry intends to subside on the atmosphere of Macy’s skin, grinning darkly as he listens to her inhale harshly; she sounds positively _wrecked_ , but not enough. 

“Harry,” Macy breathes, and he tongues his way down the elegant column of her throat with open-mouthed kisses designed to leave marks. The thought thrills him. And when Harry stumbles across a patch of especially sensitive skin he lingers, worrying at it with his tongue as Macy bares her throat for him, crying out and wrapping a long, tawny leg around him to pull forward, harder against her. 

The cad in him, the very beast he’s been able to ward off until now, roars to the front and Harry palms Macy’s perfect backside and hauls her up, the thin fabric of her dress parting to allow him to step fully between her thighs as he holds her against the books. Harry breathes hard out of his nose and almost bites down on the flesh in his mouth when their bodies line up perfectly, notching him at the apex of her thighs as he curls his hand beneath them in order to lift them higher. 

Harry feels like he’s been hard for hours. He feels lightheaded when he grinds against her clothed core, swearing he can feel her heat through the layers as pleasure skitters across his scalp and slides down his spine. Macy throws her head back, moaning when Harry does it again. He’s drunk on watching her, marveling at how responsive she is to everything he does to her. He begins swirling his hips against her, rolling his trapped, aching length against her to make her cry out. 

“Yes,” Harry hisses, enraptured by the profound beauty of Macy’s countenance in the throes of passion and lust. “Do you feel what you inspire in me?” He punctuates his question with a hard thrust aimed to make her shake and keen. She raises a hand to cover her mouth and Harry finds the wherewithal to stop moving. 

Immediately Macy glares at him, even as she tries to pick up the friction by moving her hips against him herself, but he holds her in such a way her movement’s restricted. 

“Harry,” she pleads, her face dropping to his shoulder. Why? Surely, she can’t be embarrassed!

“Macy? Macy, love, look at me, please,” Harry says, ignoring the scream of his body as he focuses on how the treasure in his arms shivers at the sound of her own name.

Finally.

Seconds pass like years before Macy lifts her beautiful face from his shoulder and Harry’s breath stutters at the sight. He moves to soothe with his kiss, but Harry forgets himself when Macy groans ever so softly in the back of her throat – the sound goes straight for his cock without delay or warning and he snaps his hips into her with renewed vigor, causing Macy to break the kiss with a shouted swear.

“Harry, _oh god_ ,” she whimpers, holding on tightly. The strain in her voice is evident and – _oh_.

Oh.

“I have had to watch you all night,” Harry grumbles in her ear, grinding against her, almost dizzy with want as he moves against her, trying to figure out how to give her what she needs. “ _Fuck_ ,” he pants forcefully, Macy shaking even harder against him. “Watching you move about the room and flash the silk of your thighs to me and anyone else in your wake when you walked past. Tell me, Macy, did you want to know how many times I craved to take my hands _just like this_?” 

Harry shifts Macy in his grasp to allow him to slide his hands further up her legs, dipping into her dress and squeezing her ass, both hands against bare skin. His eyes roll up into his head when her nails scratch against his scalp at the back of his head, holding her tightly against him. 

“Doctor Vaughn,” he rumbles darkly, utterly in awe, “ _you’re not wearing any panties_.”

Macy cries out when he slows the grind against her core, and Harry’s toes curl in his shoes – she’s soaking through the flimsy fabric of her dress and onto the front of his pants. He readjusts his hold on her so he can support her against the books easier with one arm. He lets her slide down the books, so she rests more on his thighs, leaving her open to Harry with just a diaphanous panel of fabric obscuring her from his sight.

He knows she’s not wearing underwear. Just behind this ludicrously thin panel, Macy’s sex is open and her fragrance fills his nostrils so he swears he can taste her at the back of his throat. Harry wants nothing more than to sink to his knees and find out what her clit tastes like. He swallows and imagines the hard nub against the flat of his tongue as he teases it gently from its hiding place.

Macy tries to move her hips to regain the friction she’s lost, but there’s nothing to rub against, and a desperate whine falls from her lips. 

“What are you - _Oh my god_ ,” she bites out. 

She looks down to see Harry’s hand working behind the length of material that keeps her from being able to see exactly what he’s doing to her. His touch feels questing and Macy shudders when Harry grazes the back of his knuckles against her apex, spreading the wetness there as he brushes against her clit.

She tries to grind against his hand, but Harry’s touch is too light to provide proper friction, but that doesn’t keep Macy from moving her hips restlessly in search of it.

“ _Yes_ ,” he groans as he does it again. 

Macy can’t help which way her body wants to move – chasing sensations, Macy jerks against him as he sucks open-mouthed kisses down her neck. Harry shifts his hand to apply the pad of his thumb to the firm bundle of nerves and applies barely-there pressure as he begins to work it in shallow circles.

Instantly Macy’s head thuds against the books behind her and Harry marvels how the expression on her face is not unlike the one she wears when attempting to crack a scientific mystery. He presses a little harder, watching her body react as he adjusts the movement of his thumb and applies a little more pressure. 

“I need - ” Macy groans, the words eluding her grasp.

“Yes, tell me what you need, love,” Harry rasps. “What do I need to do to make you come?”

Macy bites her lip and her hands tighten around his biceps, but she remains mute.

“Don’t you want to come, my darling? Don’t you want to come for me?” Harry stills his hand and the cessation of motion wrings a devastatingly wanton noise from Macy’s throat. 

“Harry,” she whines, “why-”

“You need to tell me what you want,” he murmurs. 

Macy ducks her head. “Your fingers,” she mumbles.

“You want my fingers?”

She nods.

“How do you want my fingers?” 

Macy doesn’t say anything, but Harry watches her throat work. 

“What do you want my fingers to do?” He’s practically vibrating, waiting for her to tell him anything – Harry will literally do _anything_ she tells him. “Tell me, what will make you come on my fingers?”

Macy takes a deep breath and looks him in the eye. “Put your fingers in me,” she whispers. “Please pu - _oh fuck_!” 

Harry swallows Macy’s half scream when he sinks a digit slowly into her slick heat. He shudders, trying to maintain his composure, trying to go slow, but he’s grown addicted to watching her come apart. 

“You feel so good,” he says, his voice hoarse with the strain of keeping his movement slow and measured. 

“Harry… _oh god_!” She chokes on his name and he speeds up, adding two more fingers as he delves inside, rubbing against her silken walls, marveling as they begin to flutter around his invading extremities. 

Harry hauls her higher against him, allowing the cant his wrist just so, changing the angle of entry so the pads of his fingers can quest for – Macy cries out as her body begins to tremble and she’s soaking him to the wrist. He slides against the spot again and again, covetously watching the way her spine twists, completely drunk on the way her fingernails drag against his scalp. 

He pushes his face high against her neck, his forehead resting against her cheek as he breathes in her scent, feeling himself grow ever more feverish. 

“I want to feel _this_ ,” he emphasizes the word with a hard thrust of his fingers, “around my cock,” Harry whispers. “I want to see what you look like when I push inside, as you take every inch of me.”

Macy feels herself tightening around Harry’s fingers and then she’s opening eyes she hadn’t known she closed, her orgasm coursing through her body from head to toe. Her body is attempting to bear down on that which isn’t there, and in desperate need to chase the sensation, Macy grabs the front of her panties and pulls the sodden crotch tightly against her mound. 

The wet material drags against her swollen clit with a delicious burn, her hips moving mindlessly as she continues to manipulate the bundle of nerves. It’s not enough, and with a low whine, Macy shoves her fingers inside her underwear, slipping easily through the copious moisture clinging to the curls between her thighs. She reaches her clit again and presses against it firmly, and it tips her over the edge. Release pulses through her body and Macy struggles to not scream at the pleasure of it, her body taut and back bowed beneath the strength of it. 

Eventually, her body falls back to the bed bonelessly, and all Macy can do now is stare up at the dark ceiling above and struggle to catch her breath. 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” she mutters. She can’t remember the last time a dream had gotten her so worked up. Even now she can feel the echo of something stretching her deep inside and she shudders. 

_What a dream_.

Macy’s last conscious action is to pry off her ruined underwear, throwing them across the room near her hamper. She falls back and turns against her pillows, snuggling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

~*~

Harry stares at the ceiling in confusion, wracking his brain for the last time he’d had a dream so vivid. His heart beats wildly in his chest as his body cries out for the intimate press of another. Harry can smell her perfume and his fingers remember how practically _molten_ her core feels pushing inside of her over and over. 

He doesn’t say her name because it’s the last tenuous thread of control he can claim, the last line he hasn’t crossed. Harry sits up, suddenly boiling as he pulls his shirt off and falls back against the bed. The rush of cool air doesn’t calm the fever determined to engulf him. Instead, the slide of air against his bare torso pulls a hiss from him and his skin feels over sensitive as his body beseeches Harry not to ignore the stiff column of flesh standing at attention between his legs. 

Harry swallows and reaches into his boxers, taking himself in hand even as he tries to talk himself out of it, but this is happening with or without his cooperation. 

“ _Oh god_ ,” he pants, gripping himself tightly. He tries to think of anything – of any _one_ \- other than Macy; she deserves more than to be the fodder for his lurid fantasies. 

Harry has no desire to disrespect her in such a manner, but his mind is a traitor and immediately flashes to the dream that felt like no other dream before it – the sounds, the smells, _dear god_ the sensations. Everything felt clear and real and present and the sweet memory of Macy’s tiny sounds of desperation wrenches his orgasm from his body.

He lay there, gasping and spent while he stares up at the ceiling, waiting for the ability and desire to move. Neither returns before he slips back under a deep, dreamless sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [TheShipSailsItself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShipSailsItself/pseuds/TheShipSailsItself) for their valuable editing skills.


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after. Abigael tests boundaries once again and Harry really, really might not have thought this whole plan through. Especially when it seems to be at the detriment of a loved one.

He's humming.

Harry _knows_ he's humming, but he can't be bothered to stop. When he woke up that morning his mood was lighter than he could remember it being for quite some time. He felt refreshed in mind, body, and soul. It was like he's been stumbling around in the dark and someone turned on the light.

And if someone asks if he _danced_ a step or two on the way to the stove, he doesn't have to admit to such.

Mel comes and stops at the island, eyebrows riding high on her forehead. "Um, Harry?"

"Mel, good morning. Will you be joining us for breakfast?" Harry plates up the last of the sausage and places it between the other dishes ready to be consumed on the table.

Mel blinks and then her stomach makes the decision for her. "Yeah, okay," she says, unable to keep the confusion from her face. "Are you okay? This is a complete one-eighty from last night."

Harry quickly pours a cup of coffee in her favorite mug and presents it to Mel. "It's amazing what a good night's sleep can do."

Mel huffs a laugh. "Yeah, okay," she mutters.

Macy comes down next, pausing near the entrance hesitantly. As soon as they lock eyes Harry feels like his heart is going to stop, but then she offers him a soft, unsure smile - just like that he's back in the library with her in his arms, feeling her shudder deliciously against him as he slid his fingers -

Macy ducks her face and his nerves evaporate as something embarrassingly primal roars in his chest.

The smell of food brings even Maggie down from depression cocoon, and everyone takes the time to dote on the youngest Vera as much as they can in their own way. It feels... seamless. Effortless.

Like family.

Soon there isn't a morsel of food left on a plate so Maggie, belly full of scrambled tofu and vegan sausage, troops back upstairs to her cocoon. Mel is gone in all but body as she mutters at her phone and slips out the front door. That leaves him and Macy and for the first time in a long time... it just doesn't hurt.

They don't talk, and that's fine with him, Harry needs to concentrate if he's going to keep last night's dream at bay. They dance around each other with an ease born of repetition and he remembers why this was always his favorite part of the day. Soon everything's put to rights and Harry wipes off the last of the counters. When he turns, he's accidentally maneuvered Macy into the space between him and the sink.

They both freeze with just a few scant millimeters between them and immediately Harry is back in the library. He leans closer - just to put the cloth where it belongs, he tells himself - to get a whiff of her perfume, something, _anything_. Neither move.

A few footfalls are all the warning they get, and Harry turns to meet a curious-looking Mel as Macy slips away, the moment between them broken. “Melanie,” he says, wiping at nothing on an already pristine counter. “We – I thought you’d already left.”

“The whole name, huh,” she says, glancing back and forth between him and her sister. “Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Macy asks quickly, looking as relaxed as a deer caught in headlights.

“Right.” Mel rolls her eyes. “I’m on my way out but I went to check on Maggie to make sure she had enough hydration to cry her eyes out while she looks up videos on YouTube that remind her of Parker.”

Macy’s mouth drops open. “Mel!”

“What? I’m not trying to be insensitive, that’s why I didn’t say it to her face,” she hisses and shrugs.

Harry takes the gallon-sized reusable container from Mel with an almost stern press of his lips. “I’ll take this back up to Maggie. Don’t you have business at the shop?”

Mel glances at her phone again and swears. “I do and in two minutes I’m going to be late. Thanks, Harry! Macy, you coming?”

Macy startles at her name, busy downing the last of her coffee hoping to cover her bout of staring at Harry’s profile in admiration. “Yeah, I’m coming.” She brings her mug to the sink where Harry still stands, to quickly rinse it out. “Thanks for breakfast, Harry,” she says quietly. When Macy puts the mug in the draining board, she chances a glance at his face and her smile widens as she catches the color high on his cheeks.

“In every sense of the word, it was my pleasure,” Harry manages to choke out.

“ _Now_ I’m late,” Mel snaps from the foyer. “Harry, can you orb-”

“No,” Macy says swiftly, glancing back at Harry apologetically before she rushes out the kitchen.

Harry, stuck in a stupor of his own, listens fondly as Macy tells Mel it’s her own fault for being late and a lack of planning on her part is no reason to tax his energy.

Warmth blooms in Harry’s chest at the sentiment behind Macy’s admonishment. He turns and fills Maggie’s water jug with filtered water and if he practically skips up the stairs on his way to return said jug, who’s to say.

~*~

A couple of weeks pass and things between Harry and Macy are, for lack of a better term, calm. They’re not back to their former closeness, nor do they share intimate conversation over late-night tea or anything like that, but the prickliness and most important the _meanness_ that seeped into their everyday conversation and the constant itch to snipe at each other has largely faded.

It’s not everything, but it is _something_.

At least that’s what Macy tells herself as she emerges with an open box in her hands, frowning at the contents. “Hey, Mel? There are nine bottles of witch hazel but four were broken, and I only found one bottle of benzoin. You said there should be eight?”

Mel sighs. “Yeah.” Currently, they’re in Spellbound, helping Mel inventory everything before she makes an actual effort to find a full-time manager.

“I’ve got twenty bundles of dried thyme, twenty of lavender, and fourteen of hawthorn,” Harry says, heading from the other side of the store with a similar box in his arms.

“Put it over there,” Mel grouses, jerking her head toward the pile next to the counter as she checks off another on her list. “I didn’t know that running a store would be like bartending, but worse,” she mutters.

Macy can’t help her smile. “Why don’t you talk to Katrina if you hate it so much?”

Mel frowns. “I didn’t say that.”

Harry huffs a laugh. “Didn’t you just?” he asks gently.

Mel rolls her eyes. “Mind your business, Harry,” she retorts with no real heat. “I’m going to grab some espresso because the numbers are dancing on the page.”

Macy laughs at that. “That’s not good.”

“You guys want anything?” Mel asks as she backs away from the counter toward the door. A quick _no_ , she practically flees the store and does not look back.

“Perhaps the espresso will give Mel the courage and the words to tell Katrina she doesn’t really want to run the shop; at least not the day-to-day,” Harry says.

Macy smiles, secretly loving the warmth fondness adds to his voice. She knows he loves both her sisters, but Harry has a different type of relationship with either one. It’s unimportant things in times like these that break through the doubt and frustration she has with the growing pangs of having a new family, that makes her think she can do this.

She glances over and catches Harry’s eye and he gives her a soft smile that leaves her feeling warm all over. Desperate for a distraction, Macy checks her phone and realizes it’s close to lunchtime. “Hey Harry, would you-”

She’s cut off by a notification chime. Macy knows it’s not her phone and looks at Harry expectantly. He frowns and pulls his cell from his pocket, checking the screen quickly. Immediately the energy in the room shifts.

“What is it?” she asks.

“It’s Abigael.”

Macy works her jaw as she tries to rein in the flare of rage at the sound of her name. “What does she want?” she asks, proud her voice is calm and even.

“It just says _help_ , and while I’ve asked her to elaborate, she hasn’t responded yet.” He looks concerned. “She may be in danger.” He hesitates. “I should go check.”

 _There’s nothing wrong with that woman_ , Macy thinks. “Should you?” she asks, the mood souring in the pit of her stomach.

Harry just gives a look before he comes to grab his jacket from behind the counter. Macy immediately snatches her own coat and steps up to him. “What are you doing?” he asks. “It’s obvious you don’t think I should go.”

“And I stand behind that, but I’m still not letting you go into possible danger alone. We watch out for each other,” she mutters, donning her coat and ignoring the feel of Harry’s gaze on her profile. By the time she’s done his eyes are boring into his phone rather than the side of her head as he offers his arm.

A second later they’re at Abigael’s swanky high rise, apparating right at the security desk. The demon posted at the desk glances up with big brown eyes but doesn’t look surprised in the slightest. Macy can’t help but wonder how often Harry _pops_ over if his arrival is now considered unremarkable. The sour in her stomach coalesces into a pit as they are shown into Abigael’s private residence.

Macy looks around but sees nothing out of place, no sign of a struggle anywhere.

“Abigael?” Harry darts around the furniture and down the hall. Macy has no choice but to practically scamper after him.

“Harry?”

Macy bristles at the way the demon makes even Harry’s name grate on her nerves.

He rounds the corner, Macy right on his heels, and throws open the double doors to find Abigael on the floor amidst boxes, looking as if both they and she had fallen. Harry rushes forward, easily cradling her in his arms, and carries her over to the obscenely large bed dominating the room.

“What happened?” Harry lays her gently on the comforter before he runs his hands over her limbs, searching for injury.

“Oh, thank god you came.” Abigael smiles wanly, grabbing his hand in both of hers.

“What happened?” he asks again, gently.

“I fell,” she whispers.

“Why didn’t you call one of your demon lackeys?” Macy asks from the end of the bed.

Abigael briefly shifts her gaze to Macy before pointedly turning back to Harry. “I’m the overlord,” she murmurs. “I can’t appear weak. But more importantly… I trust you, Harry. More than anyone.” She smiles. “I called and here you are.”

Harry’s smile is faint as she reaches up to cup his cheek. “Are you in any pain?”

Abigael winces. “My ankle,” she admits.

Macy cocks her head, looking at the strappy, four-inch heels she’s wearing. “Maybe you should try footwear more your speed.”

“It’s not _my_ fault I have such a slight frame, and I refuse to apologize for feminine delicacy.” She looks Macy up and down and the shade of a sneer can be seen in the curve of her lips. “Not everyone can boast such a… naturally _solid_ physique. Whilst it comes in handy for some of life’s more arduous tasks, I’m sure, it must put quite a few people… well, _off_.”

Macy blinks. She can read between the lines and knows she shouldn’t rise to the taunt, but the mortification and embarrassment bubble up from the times many other petty, spiteful women sought to body-shame Macy. Now, just like then, the indignity reaches into her throat and snatches her words, leaving her momentarily breathless in humiliation.

Abigael yelps, Harry’s hand on her ankle. “Harry, that hurts,” she admonishes.

“Apologies; the more complex the injury the greater chance of pain whilst I heal.” The light fades beneath his palm. “There, should be all better,” he says as he removes his hand.

“Great, now we can go,” Macy says thickly.

“Off so soon, Harry? I thought we could grab lunch,” Abigael says, swinging her feet off the bed, rising well within his personal space before he steps back awkwardly.

“Like we’d eat your food,” Macy scoffs.

“Good thing I wasn’t inviting you,” Abigael fires back. “Sniffing around for a free lunch?”

Macy’s moving before she’s even aware. Harry catches her with an arm around her waist, moving them both away. “Macy,” he snaps.

She rears back, shock and betrayal coloring her face. “Are you _kidding me_ ,” she hisses.

“I’m not taking sides,” Harry says, his stomach roiling uncomfortably.

Macy gathers her self-control and ceases straining against him. What is she doing? “I think we both know that’s not true,” she spits, yanking herself out of his grasp; suddenly the feel of him on her person makes her nauseous. She throws Abigael a withering look as she skirts Harry’s grasp to leave the room.

“Macy. Macy!” Harry sighs and turns to Abigael, unimpressed. “Must you?”

Abigael’s smile widens. “I can’t help she’s so sensitive,” she says with overblown faux concern. “Has she considered therapy? Medication can do wonders, or maybe she just needs to lose a little weight – that can be a godsend to one’s self-esteem and boost your overall mood.”

Harry stalks over to her, coming to stand in her personal space, his expression heavy and full of thunder. Abigael nearly sits back down on the bed, and her smirk flattens into nothing. “That ends here and now, are we clear?”

He doesn’t yell or move to lay a hand on her but Abigael feels the truth of the threat easily visible whilst reading between the lines. She looks up at him curiously. “Why do you care? She doesn’t want you and she isn’t here to see you champion for her virtue.”

Harry shakes his head minutely. “Why do you want to be with me?” he asks.

She’s taken aback. “I thought I made my attraction quite clear.”

“Attraction yes, _reason_? Not particularly. Here’s what I think. I think you like antagonizing the Charmed Ones, Macy specifically, and your pursuit of me is just another way to get to her,” he says.

Abigael rolls her eyes. “That would only work if she _actually wanted to fuck you_ ,” she whispers, leaning forward into _his_ space. “And I don’t know what’s more unfortunate – that you value her so highly or that you value yourself so little.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and he rears back as if struck. “…I have to see Macy home.”

Irritation cracks Abigael’s tranquil façade. “Macy’s a _sturdy_ girl; she can make her own way home.”

Harry shakes his head. “We orbed here. I’ll see her home.”

“Be sure to hurry back. I have planned an unbelievably delicious repast and the wine is perfectly chilled,” she says.

Harry sighs. “Have a good day, Abigael.”

Sullenly Abigael watches the whitelighter orb away, and once alone she releases a scream of frustration that just echoes in her empty room.

**

The manor materializes around them and to Harry’s dismay Macy jerks her way out of his grasp. “Macy, please,” he pleads as she stomps away, tugging off her jacket as if she’s overheating.

“Why are you still here, Harry? Don’t you have a lunch date?” Macy snaps over her shoulder, finally ripping her arm free of the offending coat.

Harry sighs. “I’m sorry, I was just… continuing the con.”

Macy pauses; turning and pinning him with a narrow-eyed glare. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asks.

Harry blinks. “I… I suppose not. I’m sorry.”

Macy looks as if she’s going to tear into him again, and honestly, Harry is willing to shut up and take it, but she merely deflates sadly, which in many ways is so much _worse_. “I hope I helped you sell it, because from here on out I’m going to make sure I am nowhere near your _mission_.”

Harry watches her leave, feeling unworthy of calling her back or doing anything to try to keep her in his presence. One step forward, ten steps back, and all by his own hand. His heart aches in his chest and a hollow feeling opens in his soul. Instead of arguing or screaming at him, Macy will retreat to her corner, and when she deigned to speak to him it will be cold and sharp. And for what?

To maintain a plan he’d proclaimed brilliant without thinking of the ramifications to the most important person in his life.

When Mel and Maggie return to the manor it’s hours later, and they find Harry at the kitchen table staring at a cup of tea before him that had long grown cold.

Mel comes to stand beside the table, frowning when the whitelighter doesn’t move. “Harry?”

He startles briefly. “Ladies. Apologies, my mind was… elsewhere.” He glances back and forth between them, his smile flat and tight. “Are you both alright? Is something the matter?”

“Maybe we should ask you that,” Maggie mutters, throwing Mel a look from over Harry’s shoulder. “I’m just here on lunch.”

“Something weighing you down, old man?” Mel asks, slipping into the chair next to him.

Harry’s expression turns wry. “As much as I hate to disappoint, _Melanie_ , I won’t rise to the occasion,” he says. Maggie snorts as she goes to the refrigerator to try and find something exciting to eat for lunch.

“So, you’re saying I have to find another hobby?” Mel asks as she rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

“I’m afraid so,” Harry says, his small smile fading away.

Mel looks at him and catches Maggie’s gaze over Harry’s head. “Where’s Macy?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea,” Harry mutters.

Maggie snorts from inside the fridge. Closing the door, she catches a glimpse of Harry’s pensive expression and blinks. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“I’ll have you know your sister and I are not attached at the hip,” he retorts.

Mel blinks. “Right,” she says slowly, slipping out of her chair awkwardly. “I’ll go check upstairs.” She throws another look at Maggie before she leaves.

Mel trudges up to Macy’s door and knocks softly. “Hey, Mace?”

No response.

“Macy, are you in there?” Mel frowns and pushes the door open slowly enough to be stopped easily. The room is dark, cool, quiet, but most obviously empty. Nothing seems out of place or unusual, nor is there any sign of a struggle.

So, why is Mel so unsettled?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [TheShipSailsItself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShipSailsItself/pseuds/TheShipSailsItself) for their valuable editing skills.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maggie decides to take matters into her own hands. If no one's going to talk, then she will, damn it.

There’s a plethora of advice on how to deal with fury when it’s white-hot, boiling and ready to burn you from within when you’re swallowing words that threaten to spew forth like molten lava. No one really tells you how to handle it when that anger collapses into limp sadness. What do you do when you’re mourning–like you’ve lost something you can’t put your finger on?

Something that was never yours to begin with.

It’s unsettling and destabilizing. It makes Macy feel like she’s lost control of yet another aspect of her life; something that just seems to keep happening with greater and greater frequency. 

First, she loses Marisol and any chance to know her, outside of the occasional stories her sisters tell. Then there’s her father, the only solid and reliable part of her life taken from her. She loses what she knows of her own personal history when magic reveals everything she’d been told about her mother and the circumstances of her birth was a lie. 

Magic again ultimately takes Galvin from her; though time has lessened that pain in a way it hasn’t in relation to her parents. The life she had worked so hard for is gone, taken from her by whoever it is that Jimmy calls Master. Then Abigael comes along and first tries to literally take her life and _now_ is trying to take her whitelighter. 

Their. _Their_ whitelighter.

Macy is tired.

It’s been a little over two weeks since the little trip to Abigael’s apartment. True to her word Macy had endeavored to stay away from any reason or need to see that demon, and whether for good or ill, she has seen little more than the back of Harry’s head during that entire time, save for when a mission or research requires. 

She thought it would help her breathe and get some perspective, but as time moves on Macy feels even more ill at ease and what’s worse is her insomnia is back. The timing can’t be less ideal; everyone is doing their best to help Maggie heal – it’s slow going but time does what it always does and moves on. It helps that Maggie can keep busy, she and Mel’s schedules are now both full, what with their respective jobs at Safe Space and learning about their new powers and how to wield them effectively. 

In a lot of ways, the mood in the manor is lighter now – an essential part of her sisters’ identities had been returned. 

And Macy is happy for them, she truly is. But one thing keeping her up at night is the fact that she’s spending more and more time in physical contact with and ingesting the black amber in various dosages. She could overdose on the stuff and never know, what with there being no discernible effect. It makes no sense; all Mel and Maggie had to do apparently was just _touch_ the stuff. 

Deep down, Macy knows it’s _her_ that’s the problem. 

Day two of just tossing and turning and Macy is losing patience with everything, especially herself. No one is saying it to her face, but she can feel what everyone’s thinking. 

She’s single-handedly holding up their ability to get the Power of Three.

Macy blames her unstable emotional state, lack of sleep, and knowledge that Jimmy’s death is not as permanent as they’d believed for her reluctant agreement to cover Maggie while she, Mel, and Harry go off to confront the darklighter. A bout of momentary insanity that culminates catastrophically in her hastily asking one Julian Shea out for drinks.

What the _actual_ fuck, Macy Vaughn.

She’s so shocked with herself and the situation she finds herself in Macy just leaves, needing the figure out a plan and _what she’ll wear_. At least the adrenaline helps her achieve a level of focus she hasn’t felt in days. 

On her power walk home, Macy has an epiphany – maybe her hasty plan will provide them with the opportunity they need to protect the command center. A good dose of influencer potion in one of those drinks she’s supposed to be buying tonight could neutralize the somewhat charming threat of Julian Shea, tech billionaire and philanthropist. 

Is she impressed by his subterranean hydroponic garden? Absolutely. Does she want him to dig up the command center to see it come to fruition? Absolutely _not_. Does she feel a little bad for using what she thinks might be a bit of interest from him aimed in her direction?

 _A little, yeah_ , Macy admits to herself. But his proposed plans force her hand. He _cannot_ dig up the command center. Nevermind they need the space and the secrets it holds; what sort of magical security would an attempted physical breach trigger? Better safe than sorry.

Eager to update everyone on their newest crisis and its elegant solution, she jogs up the steps and rushes through the door and her sisters introduce her to yet another dead person in their home; Mel and Maggie’s father, Ray Vera. 

The shock is enough to put her and Harry in the same room without arguing. In the kitchen, she listens while he updates her on what’s going on, and while he’s talking Macy can’t help but crane her neck a little, hoping to glimpse the man and her sisters as they talk quietly in the living room. 

Something a little close to jealousy flutters behind her rib cage, and the grossness of that feeling straightens her spine and returns her attention to Harry. “I’m just glad everyone’s okay,” she says after a moment. Macy glances down at his knuckles. “How’s your hand?”

Harry lifts it ruefully. “Like new.” He shakes his head softly. “It’s been some time since I’ve struck someone in anger,” he admits. “I’ve done so to protect my charges or innocent bystanders or at the behest of the Elders. But this?” Harry looks perturbed and vaguely ill as he shrugs helplessly. “It came from me.”

Macy sees how much that admission seems to shake him, and she wants to step forward and offer him a hug or a quick squeeze of the hand; something to let him know everything will be okay. But she can’t; Macy doesn’t _know_ everything will be okay anymore, and she doesn’t know if such a gesture would even be welcome—at least not from her. 

Harry rouses out of his thoughts. “As surprising as this twist is, you seemed to have pressing news of your own.” 

The exhaustion reasserts itself in the forefront of her perception and though she feels like she could sleep a week, Macy knows as soon as her head hits the pillow sleep will elude her. She sighs and fills him on her own eventful day, but for reasons unexamined she skips the fact that she asked Julian Shea out while she gathers the ingredients she’ll need. 

“Macy, we cannot allow him to discover the command center,” he says.

She pauses in irritation. “Yes, I know. Is it immoral to bewitch a philanthropist?”

Harry frowns. “Even if he’d made all his money from petting kittens, we would still need to be stopped, and by any means necessary.”

“Agreed.”

Harry’s eyes narrow as he watches her throw the ingredients. “Influencer potion.” He looks at her expectantly as she lifts the vial to examine her work. “What do you need that for?” 

Macy doesn’t quite look at him. “I’m going to slip this into his drink.”

Harry struggles to keep his query nonchalant. “You’re having… drinks with him?”

“Dinner, actually.” She looks at him and wonders at his tone, and it’s on the tip of her tongue to ask him why he cares, but she doesn’t. Instead, she says, “wish me luck,” and leaves before he can respond.

**

Mel finishes the last of the coquito in a quiet corner of the solarium, thinking about her wild day. When she woke up this morning, she didn’t think she _had_ a father. Tonight? Tonight, he’s upstairs sleeping off the day which, to be fair, was a bit action-heavy – both physically and emotionally. 

She looks over and watches Macy wander out onto the sun porch, looking tired and a little frustrated. 

“Hey, you okay?”

Macy yelps, laughing slightly when she sees Mel in the corner. “Why are you lurking,” she jokes. 

“I’m not lurking. I’m _comfortable_ ,” Mel says primly. She frowns and tilts her head. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Macy scoffs. 

“How was your date?” Mel teases.

“Not you, too,” Macy mutters. “Like I told Harry, it wasn’t a date.”

Mel scrunches her nose. “From what I’ve been told you were successful.”

“I was, so it seems,” Macy says. 

“Was it _that_ bad?”

Macy hesitates. “It wasn’t, actually,” she admits.

“So why do you look like someone stole your favorite jacket?”

“I had gotten the impostor potion together, and I had dosed his glass… but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him drink it because I didn’t want him to say what I wanted him to say or think about what I wanted him to think. I wanted… 

“I think I wanted to get to know the real Julian Shea. He’s smart and a little corny, but sometimes he’s funny. I haven’t had a conversation that easy in longer than I’d care to remember,” Macy says. “It was nice.”

“So how did you convince him?” Mel asks. “Purely by the power of persuasion?”

Macy laughs at her sister’s incredulous expression. “Is that _really_ so hard to believe?” she asks laughingly. 

“No! Well, sort of,” Mel admits with a laugh of her own. “Sounds like you might want to see him again.”

Macy shakes her head. “This is strictly professional,” she says firmly. 

Mel’s smile turns fond. “If you say so. Maybe someone should tell Harry.”

Macy stares out into the backyard. “I already did,” she says, her tone as brittle as her posture. “Though I don’t know why he cares.”

“… Because he has feelings for you, I told you that.” 

Macy huffs a laugh. “I can’t know that for sure until he tells me,” she says. “And it wouldn’t matter anyway because he’s in a relationship with Abigael.”

Mel frowns. “But Harry _said_ it’s not real, Macy,” she says, gentle both in tone and expression.

“Harry says a lot of things,” Macy snaps before she rubs her left temple with a wince. “Are _you_ okay?” she asks as she turns kitchen-ward. 

Mel frowns again. “Me?” 

“Yes, you. Your father, who you thought was dead, is alive and well. That has to make you feel _something_.”

Mel snorts. “Yeah, a lot of something,” she mutters. 

“Is that good or bad?” Macy asks. 

“I’d say… thirty-six percent? Yeah, thirty-six percent is good. The rest?” Mel shrugs her shoulders. “I’m not going to figure that out tonight, though. I will finish my coquito and let the booze knock me out.”

Macy nods slowly. “Booze would not be a terrible idea,” she murmurs. “Maybe I’ll take a bit of scotch up to my room.”

Mel makes a face as she snorts. “ _Okay_ , Harry,” she jokes. 

Macy pauses amid pushing off toward the kitchen. “My dad used to take hours consuming just one half-filled tumbler of scotch,” she says fondly. “I think I’m kind of missing him right now.”

Mel wants to kick herself. “Right. You know where the quality stuff is? _Whatever_ that might be,” she adds.

Macy nods. “I do, thanks. Night, Mel,” she murmurs.

Mel pinches the bridge of her nose and wonders if there’s a spell to let you sink through the floor rather than face the source of your embarrassment. “Night, Macy,” she calls after her sister. One day she’ll stop putting her foot in her mouth with her older sister. 

Just won’t be today.

~*~

 _The French Ambassador just told me I don’t look like someone who can afford to skip lunch. I’ve ordered pho for the office—if you’re still in the building you should come get some. You should come soon because Swan is already hissing at people who come for seconds_.

A smile tugs at Macy’s mouth, and she wonders what she should say. Is he looking for a response? It feels rude not to respond, though. 

_Missing meals affects cognitive function, your svelte figure aside_.

Footfalls pull Macy’s focus from the screen in her hand and she smiles at Maggie as she comes down the stairs. “Hey, Maggie; where’s Mel?”

Maggie grimaces. “I switched with her,” she says, looking like she’s regretting her life choices as she plops a pile of folders down on the table. 

“Oh. Well, you’re early. Like, by almost half an hour,” Macy points out. 

“Yeah, I just wanted to get out of my office.”

“You look tired, though,” Macy says, slightly worried about her younger sister. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“I’ve got so much work to do,” Maggie says glumly. “And all day long people have been knocking on my door or needing me for things,” she mutters. “So, I _went home_ ,” Maggie says with air quotes.

Macy winces. “Want some help?”

Maggie huffs noiselessly at the metric fuck-ton of reluctance in her sister’s voice. “Nah,” Maggie sighs heavily. “It’s nice and quiet down here and by the time my shift is over I should be caught up, heaven forbid.” She glances over to the witchboard. “Everything quiet on the magic front?”

“Not a peep,” Macy verifies, her eyes drawn back to her phone when it tinkles like a bell. 

Maggie watches her sister knowingly. “Who’s that?”

“Nobody,” Macy blurts. 

Sensing bullshit, Maggie sidles up to her and just barely glimpses Julian Shea, tech billionaire, pretending to shove his face into a bowl of noodles. Macy stiffens and immediately puts her phone on the table, screen side down. “If it’s nobody, let me see,” Maggie says, feeling her request is perfectly reasonable. 

Macy glares into the middle distance, probably lamenting the day she found out she had sisters. “Just Julian,” Macy amends. 

Maggie struggles to conceal her own smile, especially when Macy’s expression flattens. 

“Maggie…”

“What?” she exclaims. “I said nothing!”

“Yeah, but I _know_ that expression and there’s no reason for it,” Macy says. 

“Why not?”

Macy blinks awkwardly, caught off-guard. “What?”

“You’re obviously interested.”

Macy shakes her head. “No, I’m not,” she says. “There’s nothing beyond the mission to distract him from digging up the command center.”

“But there could be,” Maggie suggests. 

Macy’s smile turns tight. “Again, I’m just distracting him, that’s all,” she mumbles. 

Maggie took a moment to consider her words before continuing. “There isn’t anything wrong if you _are_ interested, you know that, right, Mace?”

“We have enough on our plates as it is,” Macy says, neatly sidestepping having to answer the question. It’s one of the few habits of Macy’s that gets on Maggie’s nerves to no end. 

“But do you want more between you and Julian?” she prompts. 

Macy’s shoulders slump at her sister’s persistence. “Sure, there is… _something_ about him.” She rolls her eyes at Maggie’s growing grin. “He’s smart and seems kind, and maybe… _possibly_ fairly attractive, I guess.”

“I’m not trying to get into your business,” Maggie begins, and Macy looks completely and utterly skeptical. “I’m just saying, would it be the end of the world?”

Macy opens her mouth and her phone rings with another text notification. She picks it up, purposefully angling it away from Maggie and chuckles, firing off a response. “Julian wants to show me something.” Macy glances up and rolls her eyes at Maggie’s expression. 

“Get your mind out of the gutter. This has to do with the underground hydroponic farm he wants to plant in our command center, unbeknownst to him,” she mutters as she rises from her chair. 

“You may as well go,” Maggie says, waving her off. 

“Are you sure?” Macy tilts her head and regards her youngest sister. “I can tell him I’ll have to meet him later.”

“Go,” Maggie says again. 

Macy nods and slips her phone into her back pocket. Just before the stairs she swears and whirls around, an apologetic wince upon her face. “I’ve got something boiling,” she says. “Can you turn it off in five minutes? Just leave it in the cauldron and I’ll take care of it when I get back.”

Maggie nods. “No problem.”

Macy throws her a grateful smile before jogging up the steps and out of sight. One day, Maggie vows, people will stop sleeping on her observation skills. 

It’s been a week of Macy _distracting_ Julian Shea and though Maggie knows it’s ensuring he doesn’t dig up their command center, she also notices her sister genuinely looks forward to their meetings, and can often be found smiling down at her phone more and more.

Musing upon her sister’s apparent happiness brings to mind another member of their small family. 

_Oh, Harry_ , Maggie thinks. 

It’s obvious he’s spending most of his time at Abigael’s when he’s not manning the command center. Yeah, Maggie’s been clued in on the ruse for ages now but she's wondering if there’s a whiff of truth beneath it all; Harry wears his heart on his sleeve and she can’t see him being able to pretend so convincingly for so long if there are _no_ feelings at all. 

Maggie would bet fifty bucks that deep down somewhere he has _some_ sort of feelings for Abigael. 

_Boundaries_!

To Maggie’s utter dismay, her inner conscience sounds just like Mel. This is family - it _is_ her business. Or that’s how Maggie rationalizes it. Even the utter silence of the command center seems to enthusiastically agree.

Maggie looks at the stack of folders and sighs loudly. No lies about falling behind; demon hunting in the middle of the workday doesn’t leave enough time for required paperwork, and if the family persists to do basic things like eat, then she needs to make the most out of her time. 

She stares at the witchboard and wags her finger in warning. “You stay quiet,” she mutters aloud.

Being a responsible adult is a thankless time suck. 

At least Mel is trying to help? 

But Spellbound is doing little more than struggle right now and Maggie knows her sister feels weird about accepting pay. Because in Mel’s mind, Kat remains the never-was relationship that _could’ve been because of her own relationship to the supernatural. Instead, she remains cordoned off in the friend zone by Mel’s own guilt and denial._

__

__

She shakes her head and tries to focus. Maggie will not get shit done if she continues to daydream. She looks at the folders and her eyes slide to her phone beside the stack. Maggie grabs it and opens her calendar, and the reminder pinned to two days ahead - Jordan’s birthday.

His twenty-sixth. Supposedly his last.

As if Maggie doesn’t have enough on her plate. 

The command center doors are so loud in the still silence, and Maggie musters a smile for Harry as he reaches the bottom. “Hey, Harry,” she chirps. Inwardly she wilts at how gaunt he looks. He has bags beneath his eyes and he just looks haggard and worn out like a used washcloth. 

He looks like shit. 

Maggie puts her phone down; at this second there’s nothing she can do about Jordan but maybe she can do something for their whitelighter, watching with concern as he sits heavily in a chair across from her. “Harry? Are you okay?”

He looks at her as if he’s seeing her for the first time. “I’m fine, just a little tired, is all.” Harry closes his eyes briefly and rubs his right temple. “Forgive me, Maggie; how are you?”

Maggie waves him off. “I’m fine. But are you sure you’re okay?”

Harry glances at her. “Yes,” he drawls, the single syllable heavy with patience that borders on the paternal. 

She gestures to the witch board. “You’re not scheduled for a shift today, why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

Harry shakes his head. “I didn’t feel like going home,” he says.

Maggie looks at him knowingly. “Macy’s out,” she offers, tilting her head when his eyes snap to hers. 

“…Oh?”

It’s enough to give Maggie a headache; their whitelighter is obviously pining for her sister, even if he won’t – or can’t – admit so. “Yeah, Julian needed to show her something.” She watches as the news lands, and Harry’s expression flips through a few emotions before settling on blank neutrality. 

“Of course,” he murmurs. 

“So,” she wheedles, “she’s not at home,” Maggie says shrewdly.

Harry’s glare holds no actual heat. “Your point?”

She bats her eyelashes. “You don’t have to worry about running into her at home.”

He sputters. “Worried I may – that’s utterly ridiculous; I’m not avoiding your sister, Maggie.”

“So, what _are_ you avoiding?” she asks, unimpressed.

He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose briefly. “Oh, Maggie,” he says with such fondness her heart clenches. “I fear the day you will be unstoppable is nigh at hand.” 

“I _am_ formidable,” Maggie preens for a moment. “But _something_ is bothering you, and I just want to let you know I’m here if you want to talk.”

Harry smiles. “Thank you; I appreciate the offer of a sympathetic ear. I fear it’s something I will have to work through on my own, in my own time.”

Maggie doesn’t like the sound of that. Harry is the type to squash feelings he feels are unproductive until they explode in his face. “Is it about Macy?” she probes softly.

It’s not like one can ignore the tension and fair amount of awkward silence between two of her favorite people. And yeah, they’re no longer snipping or glaring at each other but what they _are_ doing hardly feels any better. The friction just… collapsed into a sad avoidance that feels weird and sits uneasily in her gut. Maggie may not articulate it but she _knows_ their small, fractured family is turning a dangerous corner. One they might not recover from. 

Maggie sags, her heart hurting at how forlorn Harry has been lately; he might not admit it but he’s _pining_ after her sister. It’s painful to watch but Maggie doesn’t intend to sit idly by while two people in her life fall apart right in front of her eyes. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Harry smiles. “Yes, Maggie.”

“And I won’t force you,” she reassures him quickly. “Just… as long as you know I’m here _whenever_.”

Harry opens his mouth and pauses, sniffing quickly. “What’s that smell?”

Maggie smells it, too, and suddenly she remembers Macy’s tea. “Oh shit,” she yelps, rushing over to the cauldron. _Extingue_ douses the floating flame beneath the cauldron, and Maggie hopes she hasn’t ruined it. She peaks beneath the lid and the liquid inside looks… like regular leaf juice. Ordinary tea. Steam coming off the boiling liquid hits Maggie full in the face and the consternation she had been feeling melts away. 

Whoa. 

If just a quick smell did wonders to _her_ mood, what could a whole cup do for Harry? 

Maggie checks again; the cauldron is almost full—more than enough for Macy to have with some to spare. She probably won’t even miss it. Probably _too_ much if it's as potent as she experienced. Immediately Maggie ladles up enough to fill Harry’s teacup and check’s the cauldron again. What she’s removed hasn’t even put a dent in what’s left. On a whim, Maggie grabs a teapot and fills just below halfway. She checks the cauldron’s level and you still can’t tell any significant amount is missing.

Besides, Macy and Harry were always sharing tea. What’s one more time, albeit unwittingly? 

Deciding to go all the way, Maggie throws together a tray with the tea and even stumbles across – okay, fine _finds_ \- Mel’s favorite almond cookies. Mel has taken to hiding them because Harry will and has eaten a whole sleeve with one cup of tea. 

“Tada,” Maggie proclaims, finding him not so much reading as _staring_ at the Book of Elders. He almost looks like he’s reading, but she doesn’t need body language to feel he’s miles away. “Harry?” Maggie puts the tray down and takes the book out of his hands. 

“I beg your pardon,” he protests, eyes widening when she shoves his teacup into his hands. “What’s this?”

“I thought you were British,” she retorts, pouring a few cookies onto another saucer before putting it on the table before him. Maggie pauses when she realizes Harry’s just staring at her. “No, I didn’t heat it in the microwave,” she huffs.

“Uh huh,” Harry says, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Are you ever going to let that go? It was _one_ \- ” Maggie takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. “Are you going to drink it before it gets cold?”

Harry shakes his head again. “Perhaps when I know what I have in my cup,” he says. 

Maggie exhales shortly. “Tea. Calming tea,” she adds.

Harry’s eyebrows attempt to cross his forehead as he glances down at the liquid in his favorite cup. “While I appreciate your effort-”

“I didn’t make it, Harry,” she interrupts. Maggie clocks the change in his expression and huffs. “You know, I’m sick of you acting like I traumatized you or something. It was _one_ time, and I just forgot that I left it on the counter. It’s not a big deal to reheat tea in a microwave; that’s what they’re for.”

“You still haven’t apologized,” Harry mutters, only one-quarter in jest. He inhales the steam and feels the restless edge of his mood fall away and a spark of recognition pings faintly in his brain. “Where did you get this?” he asks curiously, the heady scent of marjoram gathering at the back of his throat.

“Macy made it. She said it was to calm the mind and sorry, but you look like you could use it.” Maggie glances down at the cup and back up to him. “So, drink it before it gets cold and you can have a cookie.” She pulls one from the sleeve and he realizes it’s one of those wonderful almond biscuits Mel refuses to share or reveal where she purchases them from. 

Harry pretends to be put upon, but he takes a swallow of the tea and finds it’s much better this go-round than the first. It’s still packed to the brim with flavors that don’t seem to quite come together, but at least they’re not fighting for dominance at the back of his throat. As the liquid slides down his esophagus, tension Harry hadn’t realized he was holding loosens, and in seconds he’s tipping the empty cup to get the last few drops. 

“There,” Maggie beams, “don’t you feel better?” 

Harry reaches for a biscuit and nods. “I do,” he admits.

“Good. Now just think how much better you’ll feel when you tell me what’s bothering you.”

Harry narrows his eyes at the youngest Charmed One and definitely shoves the whole biscuit into his mouth and chews slowly. Unfortunately said biscuit is, while utterly delicious, dry and is meant to be enjoyed by dipping into a warm beverage. 

Maggie smugly begins refilling his cup. “Whenever you’re ready,” she reassures him. 

Harry wonders how one goes about drowning oneself in a teacup.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [TheShipSailsItself](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShipSailsItself/pseuds/TheShipSailsItself) for their valuable editing skills.


End file.
